


Prairie Grass

by foxcatcher



Category: Professional Wrestling, World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: 19th Century Photography, All The Lovely Cliches, Alternate Universe - 19th Century, Alternate Universe - Western, Angst, Anti-Irish Sentiment, Bad Weather, Barroom Brawls, Bathing/Washing, Bray Wyatts Sunday School, Community: wrestlingkink, Corruption, Creepy Bray Wyatt Stuff, Drunken Near-Confessions, Fashion Files: Wild Wild West, Fire and Brimstone Preaching, Gen, Heath Can't Catch a Break, Heath's Many Many Children, Implied/Referenced Brainwashing, Jealousy, M/M, Major Illness, My Limited Knowledge of 19th-Century Agriculture, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Period Typical Attitudes, Pet Chickens, Poverty, Saloons, Sharing a Bed, Shy and Awkward Love, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Social Awkwardness, Southern Gothic (Just Not in the South), family photographs, hard work, impending doom, sad shit, smalltown gossip
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-22
Updated: 2019-11-28
Packaged: 2020-01-24 06:30:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 33,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18565834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foxcatcher/pseuds/foxcatcher
Summary: Rhyno is rootless. Heath's roots go too deep.-The Western!AU that (almost) no one asked for. Set on the prairie around 1870/80 or so.





	1. A Town Named Stillwater

**Author's Note:**

> I know this first chapter is pretty short, but I've been wanting to get this started ever since I saw this prompt on the kinkmeme: https://wrestlingkink2.dreamwidth.org/423.html?thread=565927#cmt565927. I loved the idea of Rhyno as a blacksmith, and immediately imagined Heath as a poor widowed farmer.
> 
> The aim is to update this as regularly as I can - there are many more characters to be introduced, and I've got a lot of ideas for how it might pan out.

Stillwater spread itself out like a dusty sigh along the road leading into the greater Midwest.

If you stood in the middle of town, with the general store to your right and the saloon to your left, you could just about make out the faint ghosts of hills in the distance, and behind you lay the vast openness of the prairie – a landscape as open and bare as if it had been cleared by a great scythe. It seemed unintentional. Like someone at some point in the past had stopped to catch their breath on their way elsewhere, before deciding they’d walked far enough. This would do.

And so it still did – it held just enough to sustain a fragmented community and the odd traveller coming through: a main street with a smattering of shops and offices, the old school building, a little white church with a graveyard behind it, an empty prison. Beyond that a few scattered farms littered the landscape, and beyond that again was nothing.

At the end of the main street, past the doctor’s office and the butcher’s, lay a blacksmith’s shop – a plain wooden building with a great door facing the road. If not for the smoke billowing from the chimney, a passer-by might think the building was deserted, until he came close enough to look through the open doors. There, as his eyes got used to the darkness, he’d see a large, blackened room, cluttered with tools and scraps and full of noise – the beast-like wheeze of the bellows, the hiss of the fire, the piercing clangs of hammer against metal.

In the far corner, by the forge, was a man. Or, he could almost have been mistaken for an animal in the choked light, his dark form hunched over the scorching heat, covered in soot and grease, long hair hiding his face. He seemed forged himself, somehow, a coarse lump moulded by the flames.

The blacksmith.

The figure put his hammer down and wiped his sweaty brow. It was a hot and still day, the dust swirling lazily in the light streaming between the boards. Just as he was about to pick up his tool again, there was a noise by the entrance.

A man was standing in the doorway, the sun at his back so all the smith could make out was the shape of him. Not quite used to visitors, the blacksmith stood motionless for a second, watching the man step over the threshold, before he slowly walked away from the forge, wiping his hands on his heavy leather apron. As they got closer, he recognised him. News travelled in a place like Stillwater, and while the smith kept mostly to himself, he had still heard about the widowed farmer on Slater farm, with the gaggle of red-haired children. They were… hard to miss. For many reasons.

“Mornin’” the farmer said cheerfully. He was tall and tanned from the sun, built like a man of labour, with a rust-red beard and a simple straw hat on his head, his shirtsleeves rolled up. He had a child on his hip, a boy of about three, by the looks of it, dressed in home-sown overalls and with the same bright hair.

The smith only nodded in return. The little boy ducked his head into the crook of his father’s neck, hiding his face, and the blacksmith couldn’t really blame him. He probably cut a frightening figure - grimy with work, hidden away in his hot-box, surrounded by metal and fire. To the child, he must look like some kind of folk tale ogre.

There was a sudden giggle from the entrance, and the smith glanced over the farmer's shoulder to see several red little heads peeking through the doorway. “Hey, I told you to stay with Harriet!” Slater turned to yell at the children, who were already running away, squealing with joy. “And don’t you cause any trouble!”

“Sorry’ bout that,” the farmer said, turning back to face the smith with an air of long-sufferance. It was only then the smith noticed he was holding a tool in his free hand. “I was hopin’ you might be able to help us with our plough. It’s, uh, seen better days.”

Seen better days, indeed. The blacksmith only had to take one look at it to tell that it was far beyond repair. The blade was positively ancient, pock-marked and dented and chipped. Slater adjusted the boy on his hip, watching nervously, almost embarrassed, as the smith turned the tool over in his hands, looking at the scars of what seemed like countless home repairs.

“Can’t be fixed,” the smith grunted, the first words he’d spoken since his visitor had arrived.

“You sure?” Slater looked crestfallen. Even the little boy burrowed deeper into his father’s shirt. “Ain’t there nothin’ you can do? ‘s only broken. Roscoe tried to mend it the first time, but- ”

“I’ve barely seen these since my grandparents lived. You’ll have to get a new one,” the smith replied, feeling oddly disappointed that he couldn’t give the man better news.

The farmer seemed to hesitate for a moment. “How much would that be? For a new one?” He sounded like he was afraid of what the answer might be – when the smith told him the number, the blood seemed to drain from his face.

“You wouldn’t have to pay for it all at once,” the smith added quickly – not sure why he said so, but it did seem to calm the red-haired man down somewhat. “And I’d be willing to cut the price a little if I could keep this. For the metal, that is.”

“Ok. Yeah, ok. That sounds good,” Slater breathed, not quite confident yet, like he was convincing himself. “Yeah. You’ve got a deal,” he said finally, sticking out his free hand towards the smith.

“Heath.”

The smith looked at the hand, the thick, corded muscles of the forearm and the freckles that crept down all the way to his knuckles. There was still dirt beneath the man’s fingernails. Then he stuck out his own blackened claw to shake the other’s.

“Rhyno.”


	2. Dirth Path

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rhyno visits the Slater farm and learns more than he expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Opening lyrics from 'Hard Time Killing Floor Blues' by Skip James.
> 
> When it came to Heath's children, I've gone with the same number as in the "Meet the Slaters" segment, but I've changed some of the less period-appropriate names. For clarity's sake (I know it's easy to get in a muddle with so many kids), the names and age range is: Roscoe (17), Harriet (15), Ruth (13), Jesse/Emmett (11), Eliza (6) and Leroy (3).

_Hard time here and everywhere you go_  
_Times is harder than ever been before_

-

Slater farm was slowly appearing at the side of the road.

Nearly a fortnight had passed since the farmer had come to his shop, and Rhyno was on his way with a brand new plough blade in his saddlebag, scouting for signs of the family farm. He was further away from town than he tended to go, far enough that he’d had to get his horse out of the stable, but finally, he could see a dark roof in the near-distance, a dirt path leading up from the main road.

He pulled in Luca’s reins and turned off the main road to a dirt path leading up to the property. He hadn’t got far when he saw two young boys come running down towards him, and before he could do anything, such as turn his horse around and run away, there was a boy on each side of Luca, grinning and stroking the horses flanks and asking him about a thousand questions at once.

“Hey, mister!”

“That’s a nice horse you’ve got, wha’s his name?”

“Where did you come from? Are you from town?”

They were obviously Heath’s children – twins, even – so at least he knew he was heading the right way, both of them barefoot and snub-nosed, with faces full of freckles and something ever-so-slightly wild about then, in the way some young boys do when they are allowed to run free in an open landscape like this. Rhyno wasn’t sure if he was supposed to come down from the horse, so he stayed in the saddle, giving the odd grunt to the boys while they continued their barrage of questions, squinting against the sun as they looked up at the stranger, half-leading him up to the farm. Luckily, they didn’t seem to expect many answers.

As they reached the end of the path, Rhyno hoisted himself down and reluctantly allowed the twins to take Luca’s reins and lead him away. The Slater farm was significantly smaller than he’d expected. He knew the family was large – when the townspeople talked about them, the number seemed to increase to absurd lengths – and he knew it was one of the older farms in the area, or at least it had been there as long as Rhyno had been in Stillwater. But this was scarcely bigger than the sod houses set up by the newer settlers. The main building was a humble, one-story wood house, covered in peeling paint and surrounded by dry grass and bald patches of dirt. A lone tree provided some shadow near a small ramshackle barn, a simple rope-and-plank swing hanging from one of the sturdier branches. Everything about the farm seemed pale and bloodless. Rhyno felt a sudden pang of guilt for not understanding earlier, remembering Slater’s alarmed expression when he had quoted him the price for the blade.

There were two girls near the door, washing clothes in a big metal basin while a small child – the boy from the shop, he realised – played on the ground near them. The older of the two eyed Rhyno with something like suspicion as he hefted the saddlebag over his shoulder and walked towards the house. But before he could get close enough to greet them, something came hurtling towards him from his left and screeched to a halt in front of him, fast enough that he nearly stepped on it.  
The blacksmith looked down. A small girl was looking up at him, no more than 5 or 6 years old, dressed in a tattered apron dress and holding a surprisingly calm chicken.

“Hi,” the child grinned. Two of her front teeth were missing. “This is Nellie. She’s my chicken.”

Rhyno made a squawking noise, staring down at the two creatures. How many children were there here? They seemed to be crawling out of the woodwork. “I’ve had her ever since she was an egg. She’s the best, ‘cause she crows the loudest in the morning, and one time she laid an egg wi’ two yolks, but Ruth says that’s a bad omen-“

“Eliza, don’t bother the man.”

The older girl had straightened herself from her stoop over the basin, and waved the small girl over, still looking at Rhyno with some apprehension. The girl – Eliza? – happily skipped over.

“Good afternoon,” Rhyno said once he’d got his wits back, taking off his hat as he walked over to the three. “Is your father home?”

“Yeah,” she said carefully, drying her hands on her apron. “Him an’ Roscoe are out back. Have you business with him?”

Rhyno nodded, and she turned to her sister, a pale, timid-looking girl with her hair in two thin braids. 

“Ruth, go get dad. Tell him we’ve got visitors.”

The pale girl nodded and hurried off around the corner of the house, followed by the young girl, leaving Rhyno with the oldest. They couldn’t have been gone for very long, but the second seemed to stretch on into infinity as Rhyno stood in very tense silence while the girl scrutinised him. If he was to guess, she had to be around confirmation age, and quite pretty, with strong eyebrows and a smattering of moles across her face and neck, but she had a strange seriousness about her that made her seem much older. Rhyno looked away, suddenly very interested in something over by the barn.

“Rhyno!”

Mercifully, Heath came walking from the fields, waving at the blacksmith with his wide-brimmed straw hat. He was followed by a veritable parade – first the pale girl, then a young man who had to be Heath’s son, then Eliza with the chicken still patiently in her arms, and lastly the twins from earlier, leading a large brown cow by a rope around its neck. God knew where they had left Luca…

“Mr. Slater,” Rhyno greeted the farmer with a small bow.

“Oh, call me Heath. We’re too far out here for titles,” Heath smiled at him, shaking his hand. Both him and the young man were warm and flushed with work, shirts open at the breast, and Rhyno tried his best not to stare as he slipped the saddlebag off his shoulder.

“I’m sorry you had to come all the way out here,” Heath said, taking the bag from the other man. “We could have easily picked it up at the shop next week or so.”

He wasn’t wrong - it wasn’t as if Rhyno was in the habit of delivering his goods in person – but something had told him it would be better if the farmer got it sooner than later. He rarely saw the man in town, just the children as they walked to and from school – those of them who attended. And there had been part of him that had wanted to make sure the man got it, even if that made no sense. A part that was oddly curious. Rhyno shook his head, reaching for the bag once Heath had fished the blade out.

“It’s no problem.”

There was a moment as they both held on to the leather bag – Heath smiling at him, Rhyno… staring back less gruffly than usual – before Heath suddenly let go, like he’d remembered something.

“I’m sorry, where are my manner?” he laughed. He almost seemed flustered, although that might just have been the sun. Rhyno had never been good at reading people. “This is my eldest, Roscoe,” the farmer nodded to the young man standing next to him.

“How d’you do, sir,” the youth said, shaking Rhyno’s hand. He was clearly his father’s son – almost as tall, although slighter, like he’d only recently stopped growing, and with the same jaw and short-cropped copper hair – but there were certain features that Rhyno assumed he must have inherited from his mother. A roundness to the upper lip, a sharpness to his cheekbones.

“And these are my girls, Harriet and Ruth and Eliza,” Heath continued, beckoning the girls over. Ruth, who now had the small boy on her hip, kept behind Harriet, following her sister like a shadow, even as they gave a polite curtsey.

“’Course you’ve already met Leroy. And this is Jesse and Emmett,” he finished, before adding a pointed “who I hope haven’t caused our guest any trouble, since I’ve told them to leave strangers alone, and _especially not run off with their horses._ ”

The boys only smiled, the very picture of innocence. The cow, bound to the tree, made a cross sound, like she was offended at being left out. “And, uh, that’s Beulah.”

Rhyno’s head was swimming with names. He’d known there would be many of the Slaters, but he’d never imagined _this_ many. Maybe the stories hadn’t been so far off, after all. Feeling distinctly out of his element, he nodded politely at the children, then the cow, and looked around for Luca, ready to make his escape as quickly as possible.

“Say, won’t you come in for a cup of coffee?” Heath asked, warm as sunshine. When Rhyno hesitated, he put a hand on the blacksmith’s back, subtly turning him away from the path. “Come, come. It’s the least we can do before we send you on your way. Harriet, will you be a sweetheart and put the water on?”

Harriet was slipping through the door, and then Rhyno was being gently ushered towards the small house, surrounded by children, feeling just a little bit like he was being led straight into the lion’s den.

-

The house wasn’t much better on the inside. It was made up of a single room with two windows – on one side was a kitchen corner with a stove, a rickety table, the walls lined with shelves and pots and pans, and on the other were two beds, a large chest at the foot of one of them, a rug on the ground and a discoloured mirror on the wall. You could probably cross the floor in less than twenty paces.

The blacksmith had been given a chair at the table – one of the few chairs in the house, as it turned out. heath had taken the other one, Leroy sat on his lap, while Roscoe perched on the chest. Everyone else huddled where they could, sitting on the floor or leaning against the closest wall. And they were all looking at him. It was possibly one of the most uncomfortable situations Rhyno had ever been in – surrounded by a sea of curious eyes and red hair, while he sat stiff as a board and drank his cup of weak coffee. Eliza had thankfully left her chicken outside and was instead playing with what looked to be a wad of rags tied together in the rough shape of a doll. Even that had a shock of red yarn on its head.

Rhyno had another sip of coffee, staring at the door.

Even though Heath had to be exhausted from working all day, he didn’t seem to be. Most of what Rhyno could remember of his parents was the broad expanse of his father’s back, rising and falling as he rested after a long day’s work, his mother quietly bent over the pans in the kitchen. They had been poor, too, just like Heath, and had worked hard every day of their life, until the flood took them away and left Rhyno with his grandparents. But they had always seemed tired and distant when they came home, whereas Heath seemed energised by it – by his family – lighting his clay pipe and chatting with the children and laughing as Leroy played with his braces. He didn’t even mind that there was a large, burly and seemingly mute stranger at the family table. It made Rhyno feel something he couldn’t quite place, neither her nor there. He turned the cup around in his hands, letting his eyes wander around the room, wishing he knew what to say.

“Uhm, those your parents?” he managed to squeeze out, indicating towards a dark, ancient-looking photograph propped up by the window sill. 

“Yeah, good old Ma and Pa Slater,” Heath said, tapping his pipe against the edge of the table. “Toiled all their life here, God rest them. I know it don’t look like much, but they left me the house and the fields, me being the oldest and all. And when I die, it’ll go on to Roscoe.”

The farmer positively beamed at his son, who smiled back tiredly, as if leaving this arid patch of land to him was the proudest thing he could imagine.

Just as Rhyno was swallowing the dregs of his coffee, Heath coughed gently, shifting in his seat to let Leroy down onto the floor. As if on cue, Roscoe hopped up from the chest and motioned to the rest of the children.

“Why don’t we go and get Mr. Rhyno’s horse ready for him?”

A bit confused by the abrupt change, Rhyno watched as the children disappeared out the door, one by one, until he was alone in the room with Heath. Well, he guessed it wasn’t that odd – the family probably had things to do, and he’d already stayed much, much longer than he’d intended. He put his cup to the side and got up from his chair, Heath mirroring his movements.

“I nearly forgot,” Rhyno said, rummaging through his coat pockets until he found a neatly-folded piece of paper and held it out to the other man. “Your bill.”

Heath took the slip and put it in his pocket without looking at it, before walking over to the shelves by the stove, taking down an old, beat-up tin.

“How much do I owe you, then?” The farmer sounded like he’d been expecting this, but also dreading it, looking down into the tin rather than at Rhyno.

“Oh, you… you don’t have to pay me straight away,” the blacksmith said, holding up a hand. “I just thought you might want it in writing.” He didn’t like the resigned look on Heath’s face, not when he had looked so happy, so content, just moments earlier. It aged him, washed him out. Made him look every inch the dirt-poor widowed father of seven that he was. Rhyno tried to find the right words to make it go away.

“I meant what I said. There is no hurry about the blade, pay me a few dollars here and there when you can.”

Heath looked terribly unsure, still holding the old tin in his hands. He looked at the blacksmith, as if he was trying to gauge with his bare eyes whether he could believe what this stranger was telling him or not. Then, wordlessly, he put the tin back on the shelf, a tentative smile appearing on his face.

-

The next week, a certain red-haired farmer was again standing at the threshold of Rhyno’s shop, Leroy on one arm and a broken plough in the other.

“Mornin’” he said grimly as he stepped into the dark room, the sunshine spilling in behind him. Rhyno almost wanted to smile.

“Mornin’”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, thank you for reading, and please let me know what you think! Kudos and comments are always appreciated.


	3. Flotsam and Jetsam

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heath’s name belonged here in a way his never had, passed down through the farm, through the fields and the sweat and the soil, each generation sinking their roots a little deeper into the ground.

There were times Rhyno couldn’t remember his real name.

Not just the pet name given to him by his grandparents, some diminutive form of a name from their birth country, shortened to fit the whirlpool of cultures and nationalities in the land they had made their new home. He could still hear his grandfather’s voice, his accent heavy, never used to this strange, foreign language – _Rino, you be good boy, go get water_. His full name seemed to have faded away, lost in the breeze that carried him into Stillwater, and suddenly he was simply Rhyno. Sometimes not even that – some townspeople only knew him as “Smithy.”

Blacksmith by nature, blacksmith by name.

Heath seemed very different, Rhyno thought as Luca slowly pulled him past the landscape stretching endlessly in all directions. The horse knew its way to the farm by now, following the road with even, rolling steps. Heath’s name belonged here in a way his never had, passed down through the farm, through the fields and the sweat and the soil, each generation sinking their roots a little deeper into the ground. The farmer seemed to have been born out of the very ground near Stillwater, coloured by it, dirt-red and straw-yellow - Rhyno could see his kind face in his mind, the blue of his eyes, his easy, open smile. Earthy and unpretentious. Solid.

And yet, he couldn’t shake the words he’d heard that same morning.

-

_He’d been outside the shop, mulling over the week’s work while he saddled up Luca. The horse needed new shoes soon, he could tell, the old creature shifting from foot to foot as he heaved the saddle onto his back._

_“Good morning, Smithy.”_

_“Good morning, ma’am,” Rhyno greeted the old lady. Mrs. Harman was a terrible gossip, who would talk the ear off anyone who would half-listen to her – sanctimonious and nosy, always on the hunt for that next scrap she could get, though Rhyno hadn’t given her any reason to be interested in him before. She must have spotted him saddling up and seen a convenient target._

_“It’s rare to see you out at this time. Where might you be heading off to?” she asked pleasantly, although Rhyno could hear the hunger lurking behind the words.  
“Going to the Slaters,” Rhyno grunted back, not taking his eyes away from his work. “Got some work there that needs doing.”_

_“Really?” Mrs. Harman said after a moment, disbelief in her voice, before she caught herself. “Well, bless your kind heart, Smithy. That’s exactly what Father Wyatt was talking about on Sunday, wasn’t it – helping those less fortunate than ourselves. Mind you, we haven’t seen that man in church since his wife died, God rest her soul.”_

_She seemed happy enough to ignore that they hadn’t seen Rhyno in church for a long time either. The blacksmith made a non-committal sound, wishing the woman would leave him alone already._

_“Of course, Father Wyatt is too good to mention that, and some of the children do show up for Sunday school. But I can’t help but feel bad for them, dressed in those rags – and so terribly thin,” she continued, not at all bothered by the lack of response from the scruffy man. “Did you know one of them brought a chicken in once? I don’t understand how Miss Bayley puts up with them, the little urchins – and those unruly twins of his!”_

_Mrs. Harman groaned, raising her arms in exasperation. “Mr. Corbin said they were the ones who smashed his windows last year, and they were never held responsible for it. Not that they could have paid for the glass anyway, ‘course, I’ve heard their father is running out of credit at the store. Though you can’t blame them alone, poor things, with their mother dead. That’s what happens, isn’t it? A man on his own with so many children?”_

_Rhyno tightened the strap he was holding with a sharp jerk, making Luca turn his head in indignation. And still Mrs. Harman kept talking, leaning in conspiratorially._

_“Between you and me, Smithy, I don’t know why he hasn’t sent them away. I’m sure they would have it much better somewhere else than that hovel, maybe one of those new state facil-“_

_“I’ll be on my way now, ma’am,” Rhyno cut her off, already leading Luca away from the shop._

-

Although he felt better having put some distance between himself and the town, the words lingered, itchy, like ants running across his skin. To say all those things about Heath and his family, so casually. And to pretend that she felt any sympathy with them. His hands clenched around the reins. Never-mind. What did it matter what she thought.

Rhyno got down from his horse before pulling on to the path up to the farm. He could already see Jesse and Emmett come tearing down the path like twin bolts of lightning, little Eliza at their heels. He’d let them ride on Luca’s back up to the house last time, and he was sure they were hoping to do the same this time.

He hadn’t meant to come back to the farm as frequently as he had. It was just… professional concern. The second time he’d come out, to deliver the twice-mended plough, he’d noticed the odd repair that needed doing, here and there, and hadn’t felt like he could ignore it – as a craftsman, of course. And time was clearly a luxury here, the fields and the animals taking up most of the family’s day, so it was only right that he should take the time to come and help out when he could. By the third or fourth time, he was even getting used to the kids, the sea of red not quite so blinding anymore.

And so he pushed Mrs. Harman’s words away and helped the twins up on the saddle, placing Eliza at the front so she could hold onto Luca’s mane, before he led them up to the farm.

Harriet was the first to meet him, coming out of the house and over the small square, hands red from scrubbing something or other. The girl had warmed to Rhyno a great deal since their first interaction, although she still seemed a little guarded, in a way he couldn’t quite make sense of.

“Morning, Mr. Rhyno,” she squinted against the sun as he helped load the children off Luca’s back. “Back again so soon?”

“Uh, yes,” he said, not sure what the tone of her voice meant. He let Eliza down carefully down, holding her at an arm’s length until her feet hit the ground. Heath was by the house this time, coming over from the barn to greet Rhyno as he usually did, hat in hand.

“Hello, Rhyno,” the farmer said, giving Luca’s muzzle a gentle stroke. Rhyno pretended he didn’t feel a small twinge of disappointment that is was cool enough for the man to button his shirt all the way up. “To what do we owe the pleasure this time?”

Something was off about him. That smile that Rhyno had imagined in his mind all day was pale at the edges, his voice distant. Rhyno nodded, suddenly very uncertain.  
“Thought I better have a look at Beulah’s hooves. Not good for her to walk without shoes so long,” he mumbled, Luca’s reins still in his hands.

“That’s good of you,” Heath replied, something unsaid hanging in the wake of his words. Rhyno swallowed. Had he made a mistake of coming out? Should he had let them know earlier? There was a moment of uncomfortable silence, before the farmer broke it, clearing his throat.

“Harriet, why don’t you take the little ones inside and start gettin’ supper ready?”

Harried didn’t move at first, eyes flitting between the two men, before she reluctantly took Eliza’s hand and pulled the girl towards the house, the boys already gone. Heath waited until the door had closed before he spoke.

“Look, it’s not that I don’t appreciate what you’ve been doin’ for us,” he started. “And Lord know the work’s been needed for some time, but…” The sentence died away. Heath made some half-formed gestures, moving his hands like he was trying to pluck the right words out of thin air. “Rhyno, we can’t afford all this. I can barely afford the first one, and we can’t work up more debt than we already have. It wouldn’t be fair to us, and it wouldn’t be fair to you.”

Yet again, Rhyno didn’t know what to say. He hadn’t considered any kind of payment – he’d barely thought about why he was coming out at all, or why he felt such a strong need to help this man.

“The cow needs shoes. There’s no need to pay me,” he croaked. Out of the corner of his eye, he thought he could see several small faces peeking through the cracked panes of the kitchen-side window. When he looked back at Heath, the farmer’s face had gone cold and hard.

“We don’t need no charity,” he said, the words bitter on his tongue. “Ain’t had none for years, don’t need none now.”

“What?” Rhyno’s brain was racing. What had he done? How had this gone so wrong? “No, you don’t-“

“I know what people say about us in that town,” Heath continued. “And they can take their words and their pity. I’m not ashamed. We’ve made it this far without any of them.”

“Heath,” Rhyno managed to interject. He felt almost ill with it all. “I never meant it as charity. Or pity. I was just… hoping to help. You can still pay off the blade like we agreed on.” Heath’s eyes were still stormy, bright and dark at the same time, but the anger seemed to be slowly draining out of him. “Why don’t you give me a bale of hay for the horse for the rest of it? That would make us even.”

“…That sounds good.” A light flush had crept into the farmer’s cheeks, like he was embarrassed about what he’d let out. “I-I’m sorry, Rhyno, I shouldn’t have-“  
“It’s fine. Really. I’m the one who ought to apologise.”

They both stood in silence, wisps of tension still floating between them.

“Will you come in for a bit?” Heath asked tentatively.

“No, I better be on my way, Rhyno replied, still a little rattled by everything. “I’ll come back another time.”

The two men nodded at each other, neither wanting to be the first to go. In the end, Rhyno pulled away with a tip of his hat and led Luca down the same path they had just walked, mulling over their exchange. He thought he could feel Heath’s eyes on his back.

Just as he was about to turn on to the main road, he heard a voice cry out behind him.

“Mr. Rhyno!”

The blacksmith turned to see - not Heath, but the now-familiar shape of Roscoe coming down from the farm. He looked like he’d come straight from the fields, trousers covered in dust and dirt, his rough linen shirt a mottled colour that might once have been white.

“I just wanted to say thank you,” the young man said once he’d caught up with him, his tired, earnest eyes looking into Rhyno’s. “My father might not seem like it, but he’s a proud man, an’ he doesn’t have many friends around here. It’s hard for him to accept help. So I wanted you to know we appreciate everything you’ve done here.” He smiled lop-sidedly. “It’s been years since he allowed a stranger into the house.”

And before Rhyno had time to react, Roscoe was on his way back, moving quickly up the path, his back bent a little like it always was, as if he was carrying a great load. Rhyno stared after him until he couldn’t see him anymore, turning what the young man had said over and over in his head. Then he got up into the saddle and let Luca take him back to Stillwater.


	4. The Hired Hand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rhyno inches closer to the truth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter is a little later than I wanted it to be, I'm trying to keep the posting on a weekly basis. And thank you so much for all the lovely comments! You guys are being so good to me, I always look forward to them :)
> 
> Title from _The Hired Hand_ by Wovenhand, who have inspired a lot of this work in general.

Time passed, little by little. Summer bled into autumn, though the landscape around Stillwater never seemed to change that much with the seasons, bare and plucked as it was. The only way you could tell for sure in town was by the weather – the cold winds that whistled through the streets and made people scuttle from house to house, huddled beneath their coats; the dry, cracked ground and stale grass; the sudden showers of rain.

And one day, there was a strange woman outside the farmhouse.

Rhyno’s visits had long since stopped being solely about work. Heath had paid off his debts a good while ago, and at some point, he’d found himself riding out to the farm simply to see the farmer and the children. The uneasy tension that had been there in the beginning had disappeared, and once Heath had realised that Rhyno really held no ulterior motives, he’d accepted the budding friendship the way he did most things – simply and openly, without any words. Rhyno himself wasn’t quite sure what to make of it all. It didn’t seem to make any sense – he’d always had enough with his own company. He didn’t like children. He didn’t even think he could remember ever meeting a person he’d actually _wanted_ to see again, but now, he’d catch himself thinking about the farmer while he worked, wondering what the other man might be doing at that same time – if he was out dealing with the harvest, or if he had taken a much-needed break, carrying one of the chairs out so he could sit by the side of the house and enjoy the cool breeze on his skin, or maybe having a drink by the pump, cupping his hands under the stream and lifting them to his mouth, water spilling down his neck to his shirt – at which point he had dropped his hammer, the sharp clang of it hitting the anvil breaking his strange reverie.

And now there was a strange woman outside the house. Talking to Heath. A woman who looked ready to punch Rhyno in the face once he was close enough.

Rhyno didn’t think he’d seen her before, though he could tell she wasn’t from around here, even from a distance. Was she a relative? She certainly looked like she could be a Slater, with her brick-red hair. Or was she perhaps a sister of the late Mrs. Slater? Rhyno wasn’t sure what Heath’s wife had looked like – there was a faint image in his mind of a red-haired woman, comely and cheerful, but he couldn’t tell if it was the real Mrs. Slater or if it was something his imagination had created to fill an empty space. There were no pictures of her in the house, nor could he remember her coming into town much when she was alive.

“Hey!”

The cry cut through Rhyno’s thoughts, and he realised he’d come to a stop in the middle of the path, a few yards away from the farm.

“What’re you starin’ at?”

Oh. Well, the accent ruled out any possibility of her being a relative. Unless Heath had family in Ireland, which Rhyno guessed wouldn’t be so unlikely after all.

“Mornin’ Rhyno, don’t mind Becky,” Heath smiled at him once he was close enough. The familiarity seemed to soften the woman’s scowl a little, even as Rhyno cautiously tipped his hat towards her. “She and her brother are helpin’ out with the harvest. Oh, jus’ wait a minute – Sheamus! Come say hello!”

A veritable giant of a man came out of the barn, carrying a massive bale of hay on one shoulder, with Jesse hanging from the other arm and Emmett running behind.  
“Hey!” Heath yelled at the twins, not amused by the tomfoolery. “What have I said ‘bout botherin’ Sheamus while he’s tryin’ to work?”

“Ah, it’s no problem, Heath,” the giant replied, putting both the boy and the hay bale down. “It’s good for them to get some o’ that energy out. Right, fellas?”  
The boys only laughed, crawling over each other to get back to the barn.

“Sorry ‘bout that, Sheamus. I wanted you to meet my friend Rhyno,” Heath said, clapping the dark-haired man on the shoulder. Rhyno’s heart did a funny little leap at the word “friend”. “He’s got the blacksmith’s shop in town, by the butchers.”

“Good to meet ya,” the Irishman grinned at him.

“And you,” Rhyno replied sheepishly, watching as his hand disappeared in the other’s shovel-like palm. The man was easily a head taller than him, with a huge red beard and arms that seemed to strain the sleeves of his linen shirt. “Are you relatives of Heath?”

The farmer only laughed at that. “No, no. Becky and Sheamus are headin’ westward,” he explained. “They’re stayin’ here for a bit to help out with the farm before they continue.”

“We’re lookin’ for our cousin,” Becky added seriously. “He left home during the Hunger. Bought himself a ticket to the promised land, and no one’s heard from him since.” She crossed her arms, something grim in her voice. “Don’t even know where he is.”

The giant nodded. “We’ve been travellin’ since spring to find Finn, with no luck. And I don’t have t’ tell you that our people aren’t exactly welcomed with open arms wherever we go. Got mighty tired of sleepin’ outdoors. But then we met this fella right here,” Sheamus grinned wide and slung a familiar arm over Heath’s shoulders.  
Side by side, they could almost pass for brothers – Sheamus the good-natured older brother and Heath the younger, slightly flustered by his sibling’s antics. The farmer leant into the other man, and Rhyno wasn’t sure how he felt about that, about this stranger being able to touch Heath so easily, like they’d known each other forever. It made his hands itch, where they hung uselessly by his sides.

“Becky?” Ruth’s soft, wavering voice carried across the little square, her thin figure half-way out the door. “Co-could you help me carry water for Leroy’s bath?”  
It was the first time Rhyno could remember the girl speaking that many words in a row, especially without her older sister by her side.

“Course, love, I’ll be right there,” Becky smiled at the girl, before turning to the blacksmith and gripping his hand in a surprisingly strong grip. “Good meetin’ you, mister.”

“I better go see what those two rascals are up to.” Sheamus adjusted his braces and bent to pick up the hay bale he’d put down earlier. “I hope we’ll see you around, Rhyno. Maybe you’ll let us come into town and see that shop of yours,” he said with a jovial wink, and walked back to the barn, leaving the two men on their own.

The farm square seemed quieter than usual, not a child to be seen anywhere.

“Have they been here long?” Rhyno asked after a bit, rubbing his hand. If Heath noticed, he was polite enough not to mention it.

“Less than a week, I think, but we’ve already made good progress with the harvest. And it’s good for the girls to have a woman around,” the farmer replied, taking his pipe out of his pocket and knocking it against the heel of his boot.

“Yes, she’s… spirited,” Rhyno said carefully. Heath let out a bark of a laugh, bright and sunny.

“That she is, my friend. Strong as an ox, too. Remarkable woman.”

Rhyno’s felt another flutter at the endearment, not used to it. He still wasn’t sure how he felt about the farmhands. Roscoe had said it had been a long time since Heath had let anyone into the family home, but now it seemed like the doors had been flung wide open, and he couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed, for some reason. It was ridiculous, of course. Both the Irish had been perfectly pleasant, even if Becky was a little… intimidating. And Heath needed all the help he could get. With the pace they looked to have, they would be done with the harvest in record time. But, still…

_Oh, pull yourself together_ , Rhyno thought to himself, watching Heath light his pipe. _Let the man have this._

_You probably won’t see them much anyway._

-

Rhyno stood outside the general store, peering through the windows.

He’d been wrong. Oh, so wrong. He'd ended up seeing the Irish _everywhere_ – at the farm, on the road into town, in the town itself. Heath had even brought them to his shop one day, like Sheamus had asked, though Rhyno couldn’t really be annoyed with them, not when Heath shone so brightly, happy to show the lodgers around his dusty little corner of the earth. They seemed to be everywhere he turned, friendly and outgoing and constantly occupying Heath’s space and time.

And now he was standing outside the store, looking at Heath and Becky talking by the counter. He’d only gone out get butter and eggs (and maybe some hard candies for when he saw the children next), but for some reason, he hadn’t been able to bring himself to walk through the doors. It felt like he’d lost something, as he watched Becky elbow Heath amiably, pointing to something on a shelf. He’d felt like Heath had been his secret, somehow – a special thing hidden away in the half-wilderness, kept just for him. And now the man was out and about without him, like nothing at all.

A massive hand landed on the blacksmith’s back, scaring him halfway out of his skin.

“Rhyno, my friend! What are you up to on this fine day?”

Sheamus was grinning down at him, carefree, as he always did. He had a packet under his arm, wrapped in paper.

“Uh, I was just-“

“Mornin’ Rhyno.” Of course Becky had to choose that moment to come out the doors, basket on her arm. “I thought I could hear you two.”

Rhyno wanted to sink into the ground. How long had be been standing outside?

“Hello!” And now Heath had seen him. Now there was really no way out of this. The farmer only smiled at him, blissfully unaware of the turmoil the shorter man was going through. “Oh, are you headin’ on back? Why don’t we walk together?”

\- 

They said their goodbyes outside the forge, and Rhyno watched them leave, their shapes slowly disappearing down the open road.

If he hadn’t known better, he might have mistaken Becky and Heath for a married couple – husband and wife on their way home after the week’s shopping, happily chatting with their friend – and he didn’t know why that made something inside him twist itself into knots. Maybe this was what Heath and his wife had looked like when she was alive, before life caught up with them. The knot inside him twisted itself deeper. Becky could be that - he could imagine them together, the wild-haired woman as the new Mrs. Slater, child on her knee.

And Heath deserved that. Another shot at a regular life, a loving wife to welcome him home after his day’s work, supper ready on the stove. Someone who could sing Leroy to sleep, who could pull Ruth out of her sister’s shadow, who could let Roscoe be young again. 

Heath deserved it so much, more than anyone else, and Rhyno felt sick to his bones with guilt when he realised that he didn’t want it.


	5. First Night, First Morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sheamus takes the lads for a night out, but as usual, things don't go as planned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little late again, but I hope you'll enjoy this chapter anyway. When it comes to names in this story, I usually go for the one that feels the most period appropriate, which is why Cesaro isn't called Cesaro here. Hopefully that doesn't make things too confusing.
> 
> The lyrics at the end are from "First Day of My Life" by Bright Eyes.

Rhyno honestly didn’t know how Sheamus had managed to talk them into this, but here they were. Facing the saloon doors like certain doom was lurking behind them. Or, two out of the three, at least – Sheamus was all smiles. Had been ever since he’d announced that it was about time they had a night out, seeing as the harvest was going so well. Becky had graciously agreed to stay at home with the children, explaining to her brother in no unclear terms that she was expecting this favour to be repaid twofold.

And now they were here.

Rhyno wasn’t sure how he felt. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been to the saloon, for a variety of reasons, but if he was going to go, he guessed he was with the right people. With time, he’d got used to the farmhands being around. They had been good for the farm and for the family, and they had grown very fond of the Slaters as the weeks had passed, which somehow, had extended to include Rhyno. Maybe they had just assumed that he was part of the package, since he came around so often. Whatever the reason, it felt almost like he had become an honorary member of the clan, which was… odd. But good. He glanced over at Heath. The man had seemed surprisingly hesitant to Sheamus’s idea, blaming the work that still needed to be done and the early morning they had and Leroy’s bedtime, but in the end, his excuses was no match for the giant’s enthusiasm. Now, in the waning light of the day, he looked nervous, fiddling with the lapels of his coat – the better of the two he owned – staring at the doors like he was hoping someone else would take the first step.

Inside, the saloon was dim and smoky, most of the tables already taken, packed with dark, bow-necked figures, some Rhyno vaguely recognised and some he didn’t. It was only a single room, but a spacious one, with dark oak panels and oil lamps with polished brass fittings that looked outrageously lavish in a place like Stillwater. On one side was the bar, next to a door leading to the general store in the other part of the building – both owned and run by the same man. On the other side was a large, unlit fireplace with a few chairs around it. Over it hung a huge mounted bison’s head, peering unblinkingly through the smoke with his little glass-bead eyes – in fact, everywhere you looked, the walls seemed to be covered in rifles and skins and hunting trophies.

The noise probably didn’t stop the moment the trio stepped over the threshold, but it sure felt like it. The three of them had to stand out like sore thumb amongst the rough, uniform mass of men that were already there - the poor, straw-hatted farmer, the massive Irish farmhand, the hermit-like blacksmith… Rhyno felt like every eye in the room was fixed on them. Heath had taken his hat off when they entered, mindful of his manners, and was fingering it like a rosary, his eyes downcast as Sheamus took the lead, winding between the tables to find one that was free, like nothing was amiss. And sure enough, the noise seemed to pick up again, filling the room with animated chatter and the clinking of glasses. As they sat down, Rhyno realised that this kind of treatment had to be commonplace for the Irishman by now after his and his sister’s long travels from the coast into the country. His words from their first meeting rang in Rhyno’s ears – _our people aren’t exactly welcomed with open arms._

Heath kept his head down as he sunk into his chair, fussing nervously with his neckerchief. It was saddening to see him like this, out of his element, self-conscious in a way he never was at the farm.

“Oh, uh, let me,” Rhyno stammered, getting up too quickly when he saw Sheamus moving as if to go to the bar. “Let me get the first round. Since it was your idea to come and all.”

Sheamus clearly didn’t need to be told twice, and Rhyno was glad for it – he hadn’t wanted to ruin the man’s well-intentioned plans by explaining who ran the place and how they had next to no chance of being served if Sheamus were to walk up first. Carefully, he made his way between the tables and the men bent over their drinks and their card games, until he reached the dark-wooded bar.

Behind the counter stood a familiar, black-clad figure. A 6-foot sneer. _Baron Corbin._

Possibly the richest man in Stillwater, at least if you were to believe the man’s own words, and bitter to the bone. Rhyno wasn’t sure what could have happened in the man’s life to make him so resentful – after all, he was the owner of two of the town’s most vital businesses – but he’d always seemed to fancy himself too big for this patch of land he’d never managed to escape.

The man scowled at Rhyno as he approached the bar with the air of someone trying not to agitate a wild animal. 

“Whiskey. Three,” Rhyno asked, adding a ‘please’ for good measure. Corbin didn’t bother acknowledging it with a reply, and slowly, almost reluctantly, pulled out three tumblers and a bottle.

“It’s bad enough that you drag the country dirt in here, Smithy,” he sneered at the shorter man as he poured the drinks, pushing the glasses towards him with some disgust. “But to bring the paddy as well…”

Rhyno had no idea what to say to that, but managed a sheepish “thank you”, leaving a few coins on the counter before he turned to find his way back to his friends.  
At least Heath and Sheamus were happy to see him. The farmer seemed to have unwound a little since he’d left them, smiling gently at Rhyno when he handed him his glass – the flutter in his stomach as their fingers touched for a brief second was almost matter-of-fact now. Just as the blacksmith sat down, a softly-accented voice sounded behind him.

“Mind if I join you, gentlemen?”

Rhyno turned around to see a familiar pair of twinkling eyes. “Good evening, Dr. Castagnoli,” he greeted the man, a little surprised by the familiarity. “Of course, yes, please sit down.”

The Doctor grinned and gave them a small bow before taking the chair between Rhyno and Sheamus. Although he didn’t know him very well, Rhyno had always liked the Doctor, maybe because he was as out of place in Stillwater as he was himself – him and his wife would often joke that they had only settled in the town because their carriage had broken down when they were passing through and they were still waiting for the carpenter to arrive from the next town over. And the Swiss man made no attempt to seem less ‘other’ than he was – everything about him was different; his appearance, his voice, his manners, even the way he dressed. Rhyno guessed one of the many perks of being a doctor was that you could be as alien as you wanted, as long as people had a need for you.

“Oh, I guess you know Heath,” Rhyno hurried to say, seeing the expectant look on his companions’ faces. “And this is Sheamus, who’s helping out at the farm.”

“Pleasure ta’ meet you, Doctor,” Sheamus greeted the Doctor.

“Ah, a fellow _émigré_!” The Doctor exclaimed enthusiastically. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance. Tell me, what are the news from the continent?”

-

Much, much later, the saloon was filling up nicely, the noise and the heat growing with every person who entered. It was dark outside by now, and each table seemed like a little island of its own in a lake of smoke, lit only by the red-glassed lamps hanging from the ceiling. Rhyno could still remember how Mr. Corbin had bragged about them for weeks and weeks – how dearly they had cost him, how he’d had to order them in specially from the city, how much work went into polishing them. It was the same with the numerous trophies that adorned the room, but Rhyno knew better. The businessman hadn’t fired a shot in his life, and had bought every skin and skull in the building from the prospectors that would pass through town.

Happy and full of cheap bourbon, they were listening to Sheamus tell increasingly implausible stories about his and his brothers’ and cousins’ escapades back in Ireland. The Doctor had taken to the Irishman almost immediately, laughing at his jokes and adding the odd anecdote from his home country. Even Heath had managed to relax and was leaning back in his chair as he listened to the farmhand talk, his posture loose and his pipe balanced between the fingers on one hand.  
“Best-lookin’ lad in the village, Finn was – he used to have to beat the girls off with a stick, sometimes fer real. If I wasn’t such a handsome devil meself, I’d be jealous of him, wherever he is. Now, did I ever tell you ‘bout-“

Rhyno was feeling pleasantly buzzed, letting the sound of Sheamus’s voice drift in and out of his head, mingling with the general hum of the room. It had been a long time since he’d sat with friends like this, not a worry in sight, and it made him wonder how long it had been since Heath had done the same. He looked young and carefree where he sat, laughing easily at the other’s banter, the reddish-tinted light from the lamp above them not quite hiding the flush on his face. 

The doors clattered, another group of men cutting through the smoke as they made their way into the crowded room. As they passed their table, one of the men knocked into the back of Heath’s chair, hard enough that the farmer started forwards, nearly spilling his drink.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” the man said, not sounding particularly sorry at all. “I didn’t know Baron allowed _mothers_ in here.”

The jibe earned him a cackling laugh from his friends and a few of the neighbouring tables. Heath didn’t say anything as they laughed, but kept his head down, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. His shoulders were hunched, like he was trying to hide within himself.

Rhyno pushed his chair away from the table with a loud scraping sound and found himself face to face with two stocky men. The butchers, he realised, Dawson and Wilder. The latter must have been the one to make the remark – he was smirking at the blacksmith, staring at him like he was waiting to see what the other man was planning to do. Rhyno had only intended to confront the man about his insult, maybe give him a piece of his mind (if he could find it), but before he could get a single word out, a massive fist whizzed past his ear and punched the butcher square in the face. Stunned, Rhyno followed the arm with his eyes, back over his shoulder, and looked straight into Sheamus’s grinning face.

Everything seemed to move pretty quickly after that.

-

Rhyno was on the ground. He wasn’t quite sure how he’d ended up there, but it didn’t feel like he’d taken any hits, so it must have been more or less on his own. Gingerly, he pushed himself up to lean against a table. His head was spinning and the utter chaos around him wasn’t helping - the other men in the saloon must have been thirsty for a fight, because it hadn’t taken them long to join in, and by now, it had spread far beyond the initial scuffle into a full-blown brawl that seemed to cover the entire saloon. Once he’d got his bearings, his first thought was to find Heath and make sure he was safe. He looked around the room for the farmer, but couldn’t see any sign of him. On the other side of the table, Sheamus had Dawson in a headlock, looking positively delighted with the direction the evening had taken. The good Doctor had apparently decided to join forces with the Irishman, trading blows with the other butcher, equally pleased. Even Baron himself seemed to have thrown himself into the fight.

_There._ Finally, Rhyno caught a glimpse of red hair behind a pair of brawlers. Heath was cornered near the bar, and to his surprise, the kindly farmer was carrying his weight, even if it looked like he was sticking to defending himself when needed. Rhyno pushed his way through the mass of people, dodging post clerks and errand boys and one particularly inventive man who was wielding a mounted trout, until he was within shouting range of the farmer.

That's when he saw the towering figure of the barman, looming behind Heath, clutching an empty whisky bottle in his raised fist.

“Heath!”

It was no use. The man couldn’t hear him over the noise, hadn’t noticed the presence behind him. Before he knew it, Rhyno was moving, launching himself at Baron and barrelling into the man’s midsection, sending them both crashing to the ground.

-

“As suuuure as me name is Carney, I’ll be off to Californyyyy-“

They were staggering down the main street, the roar of the saloon dying away behind them. Sheamus and his new-found medical friend were walking in front, arms around each other’s shoulders and singing at the top of their lungs. The Irishman was sporting a rather grisly-looking gash across his eyebrow, but apart the odd scrape and bruise and the twinge in Rhyno’s side from lunging himself at the barman, they had managed to escape the saloon relatively unharmed. Rhyno and Heath followed behind them, rather more subdued than the other pair. They were walking slowly and a tad unsteady, close enough to bump into each other with every odd step. Heath had been very quiet since they’d left – he seemed a little shaken by it all, his clothes his dishevelled from the scuffle.

“I’m sorry it turned out like that, Rhyno. Should’ve known something was gonna happen,” Heath broke the silence. His breath was warm enough to create little puffs of smoke-like fog when it met the cool night air, and Rhyno wondered if his mouth would still taste like the bourbon he’d had, or the tobacco from his pipe, or possibly something else altogether. “I hope this don’t cause any trouble for you. I’d… I’d hate for you to be barred from the saloon just ‘cause of me.” the farmer continued, wrapping his arms around himself.

He looked painfully sincere. And Rhyno was drunk enough to be honest.

“Heath, I wouldn’t care if I was banned from every saloon in the county,” he blurted out, remnants of the liquid courage from earlier still pumping through his veins. “You’re a good man, you don’t deserve to have anyone talk to you like that. I won’t stand for it.”

The farmer stumbled to a halt, blinking owlishly at the other man, like he wasn’t sure if he’d heard him right. Rhyno stared back at him, bleary-eyed, and it had to be very cold indeed, because Heath seemed to flush right before him. Then he began walking again, nudging Rhyno’s shoulder with his own, the tips of his ears bright red as he turned up his collar against the breeze.

-

“Come by my office tomorrow, my friend, and I’ll make sure that’s stitched up properly, yes?” The Doctor was beaming at Sheamus. They had stopped near Rhyno’s shop, preparing to part ways.

“Ah, it’s nothin’ I haven’t seen before, Tony,” Sheamus laughed back.

“It’ll make for an excellent scar,” the Doctor assured him. “In Germany, they might take you for a student.”

Rhyno wasn’t sure what he meant by that, but it made the two men roar with laughter, before embracing like old friends. Before he could do anything about it, the Irishman had scooped him up in a tight hug as well.

“Thank you for comin’ along, fella,” Sheamus said as he put him down. “We appreciate it.” And maybe it was Rhyno’s mind playing tricks on him, but he seemed to put extra emphasis on the word ‘we’ as he gave the blacksmith a rough pat on the back, smiling like he knew something he didn’t.

After saying their goodbyes, affectionate in the way only the drunk can be, they went their separate ways, the Doctor returning the way they had just come, heading back to the other side of town, and Sheamus and Heath beginning the long walk home.

Rhyno stood in the middle of the street and watched them leave, like he had so many times before – it had almost become a ritual by now. But then, as the two reached the point where the main street became the road, Heath turned around, looking straight back at his friend. Even from the distance, Rhyno saw it – a new, soft smile he hadn’t seen on the farmer’s face before.

He waited there until he could no longer see the outline of the men. Then he went inside, climbing into his cold bed with a curious, light feeling in his chest, like someone had touched him with a wire.

-

Rhyno stood barefoot in his bedroom, looking down into the water in his wash bowl. He hadn’t dreamed in a long time, but this morning, he had woken up with faint, wispy memories in his head – memories of things he new hadn’t happened, but which still lingered hazy in the corners of his mind - someone’s arm around him, a bright laugh, the sun against his back. It seemed so close, so very real, and yet impossible to grasp.

He dipped his hands in the cool water, watching the ripples distort the surface, before lifting them to his face.

-

_Yours is the first face that I saw_  
_I think I was blind before I met you_  
_Now I don’t know where I am, I don’t know where I’ve been_  
_But I know where I want to go_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song Sheamus is drunkenly singing is an Irish folk song called “Muirsheen Durkin,” about a man who leaves Ireland for America to dig for gold. Cesaro’s remark about Sheamus being taken for a student refers to ‘academic fencing’ which was popular in Germany in the latter half of the 19th century – often, the point was less to fight, and more to get cool scars. As always, thank you for reading!


	6. Mountain Shifts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On a regular Sunday, the plot thickens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you'll see, this chapter is written from Roscoe's POV, but we'll get back to Heath and Rhyno in the next.
> 
> Opening quote and chapter title from 'Mountain Shifts' by O'Death. End quote from 'Dirty Blue' by Woven Hand.

_The mountain shifts slowly_  
_Its treachery comes from within_

-

Roscoe tightened his hold on Eliza’s little hand. A strange feeling of unease had fallen over him ever since he’d spotted the schoolhouse in the distance – a white claw poking out of the barren ground, pale twin to the white-washed church that stood next to it. He hadn’t been back in a long time, not since it had been time for him to help out with the farm full-time, but the sight shouldn’t fill him with this faint dread, simmering in his chest like it didn’t know where to go. The schoolhouse had always been a source of, perhaps not joy, but at least a kind of warm contentment, full of memories of a time when life had been simpler – the yellowed map on the wall, the neat line of little books on their shelf, the wooden desks into which many a day-dreaming child had carved names and patterns, Miss Bayley’s compassionate smile in the early morning light. She had been so very young when she had arrived in Stillwater, brimming with youthful enthusiasm and ideals, ready to take on the thankless task of running a school for the numerous children of farmers and small-town merchants. Most would never leave Stillwater. They came in, had their fill of knowledge, and then returned to their homes, taking over the endless work of their parents and grandparents, toiling in the fields and the shops until one day, they had children of their own, who would be sent to Miss Bayley’s little schoolhouse. And so the unrelenting circle continued.

Though it had never seemed to deter Miss Bayley much. While the years might have caused her to adjust some of her loftier ambitions, she had nonetheless persisted, treating each new class of children as she had treated her first. She had even agreed to take on the Slater siblings for free at one point, when it had become terribly clear that the family couldn’t afford to send any more of them to school. Then mother had passed away and time had become dear as well. A choice had to be made. Even if he had never had a head for school, Roscoe knew how lucky he had been – the little ones had to get by on just the Sunday school lessons now.

The strange feeling didn’t stop as they came closer to the pale building. Luckily, it didn’t seem like the others had noticed – Eliza was happily walking beside him, chattering away about what Miss Bayley had taught them last week. Ruth was walking on his other side, head down as usual, with Jesse and Emmett following behind, barefoot and relatively calm after a long day of working alongside Sheamus. Usually, Ruth took her younger sister and brothers to Sunday school on her own, one of the few responsibilities put solely on her thin, hunched shoulders. Before that, his mother had taken the children when she had the time. It seemed so long ago, Roscoe sometimes wondered if he’d dreamt it all, even though he knew it had only been a few years. It seemed almost impossible that there had been a time when Ruth had been as happy and carefree as any other child, clutching at her mother’s apron string. And now… Well, it wouldn’t do any good brooding over it, not when the others were here. And things were looking better than they had in a long time – with Sheamus and Becky at the farm, work was lighter, and his father seemed more joyful than he had in ages. At last, as they walked through the door of the schoolhouse, the unease in Roscoe’s chest unwound itself a little. Miss Bayley was standing by the entrance, greeting everyone as they came through, just as she had when he’d come in every morning.

“Roscoe!” the woman exclaimed when she saw the gangly young man, genuine joy in her voice. She looked radiant in the afternoon sun streaming through the windows, her brown hair swept away from her face, and if she seemed a little more tired than she had those years ago, it had done nothing to dim her smile. Beside her stood an imposing, black-clad figure. The new preacher. Roscoe didn’t know much about him – he had come from the south after the old priest had died, less than a year after Roscoe’s confirmation, and he thought he could remember seeing the man at his mother’s funeral, but that was about it. 

“How good to see you back here! And how tall you’ve grown! It’s been a very long time, hasn’t it?”

“Good afternoon, Miss Bayley,” Roscoe greeted her with a polite nod, herding his siblings into the room to find their own seats. “I guess it has. We’ve got some extra help at the farm, so my father wanted me to come along today so Ruth could have a little break.” 

“I guess I won’t get to test your spelling, then,” Miss Bayley replied cheekily, before she seemed to remember who was standing next to her “Oh, I don’t believe you’ve met Father Wyatt. Father, this is Mr. Slater’s oldest boy, Roscoe.”

“Good afternoon, sir.”

“One of the Slaters, eh?” the preacher said, staring intently at Roscoe as he shook the younger man’s hand. “It’s rare to see such a strong, young man as yourself her, if you don’t mind me saying so.”

Roscoe wasn’t sure what he was supposed to say to that. Something about the way the preacher was looking at him, the way his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes, made the feeling from earlier threaten to crawl back into his chest. Father Wyatt was dressed in black from head to toe, as preachers usually were, with the tell-tale white around his neck and a broad-brimmed hat on his head. His hair was longer than Roscoe would have thought appropriate for a man of his standing, dark and stringy, matching his unkempt beard, but he guessed a man of God wasn’t really supposed to be vain. Miss Bayley had left them alone to ready something before the lesson, but still Father Wyatt kept hold of his hand, and Roscoe didn’t want to risk being rude by pulling it back. The young man swallowed. The preacher was looking at him with such genuine _interest_ , his peering eyes glinting, like he had discovered something particularly fascinating. Finally, with a small nod, like he had gleaned what he’d set out to glean, Father Wyatt gave his hand one last squeeze.

“It was good meeting you, Master Slater,” he said warmly, his smile still not reaching his eyes, and released Roscoe’s hand. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got some business to attend to before tonight’s sermon. But I’m sure we’ll see each other again soon.”

And then the preacher was on his way. Roscoe watched him as he crossed the threshold and walked over the parched grass to the church, his hands behind his back. The man had been perfectly pleasant, and yet some unsaid threat seemed to linger in his parting words.

“Why don’t you take a seat at the back, Roscoe?” Miss Bayley’s voice rang out, making Roscoe turn away from the door. “We’re just about to start.”

Had it all been in his head? Miss Bayley had seemed friendly with the preacher, and the man had for all intents and purposes been warm and welcoming towards him. Maybe he had imagined it all, fooled by the strange dread he’d felt earlier, and so had acted impertinently towards the man, gawping at him like that? Roscoe shook his head and made his way to the back of the room.

As he’d thought, not much had changed in the old classroom. In fact, nothing at all seemed to have changed since he was a pupil – the same map hung on the wall, even more yellowed with age now, the same desks and chairs stood in neat lines, the same blackboard in front of them, the same books on the shelves, the same chill coming from the windows. Poor Miss Bayley had to be getting by on pennies, by the looks of it. They had been the last to arrive, the room almost full, and Roscoe stood out among the Sunday school pupils, and only in part because he was twice the height of most of them. He wasn’t even sure he’d fit in the tiny chairs anymore – everything seemed to much smaller than it had, like he’d wandered into a doll’s house. The class consisted mainly of younger children, although there were a few older ones, some even older than Roscoe – poor enough that this was all the training they could hope for.

At the back of the room, on the long bench stretching along the wall, sat two imposing, bearded men, carefully watching Roscoe as he made his way towards the bench. He nodded at the pair as he sat down, but didn’t get any sign of recognition from them, save for the same, unblinking twin stares. Roscoe wasn’t surprised – he didn’t know the men’s names, but everyone in town knew the two poor souls who had come to Stillwater with Father Wyatt and seemed to follow him everywhere. Roscoe had never once heard them speak or heard of anyone else who had. He assumed they had to be simple, or dumb, or both. Maybe that was why the preacher had taken them in? Again, he felt ashamed by the way he had acted in front of him – Father Wyatt had to be a good man if he’d take in two mutes like these. Resolving to apologise to the preacher when he had the opportunity, Roscoe folded his arms and leant back against the wall as Miss Bayley begun the day’s lesson.

It was reading first, Miss Bayley walking around the classroom to make sure everyone had their turn reading out part of a story. Roscoe smiled to himself, feeling almost nostalgic seeing the young teacher like this – he could remember how he used to sit at the same desks, hearing her kind and patient voice as he struggled to make out the biggest words. It was doubly pleasing to listen to Ruth as she read without a fault. Eliza did well too, following the words in the book with a little finger, slowly sounding out the longer phrases. The twins didn’t seem to pay much attention at all, but at least they sat still and kept quiet while Miss Bayley moved on to the next pupil. Roscoe was certain they were able to communicate almost telepathically by now, the way they could look at each other like they knew exactly what the other thought.

He closed his eyes for a moment as Miss Bayley moved on to writing, demonstrating on the blackboard in beautiful, curled letters for the children to copy. He felt terribly tired – not the kind that suddenly came over you, but a deep, heavy tiredness that went all the way into his bones. It never seemed to go away, really, no matter what he did - he barely noticed it these days, there was always something or other to do. But it was nice to be able to just sit here and doze to the pleasant drone of the schoolroom noise, letting his body grow heavy. Stifling a yawn, Roscoe opened one eye to steal a glance at the two men next to him. They didn’t look like they had moved an inch since the lesson had started but sat grave and still as statues on the bench. They had to be here to learn as well – it was rare, but not unheard of for adults to join the Sunday school classes, hoping to learn to read or write. And the pair’s eyes were fixed on the blackboard in what seemed like rapt attention, but they had no books in their hands, no pencils or paper to write on…

“Alright everyone, let’s welcome back Father Wyatt for today’s sermon.”

Roscoe woke with a start to the sound of Miss Bayley’s voice, and looked around the room, bewildered. He must have fallen asleep in the middle of the lesson – he certainly hadn’t heard the preacher return, but there he was, standing by the door, waiting patiently until Miss Bayley had tidied away her things and beckoned him up to the desk. He felt his cheeks warm and rubbed at them absentmindedly as the preacher took his place.

“Hello, little lambs,” Father Wyatt said, smiling at his young audience. “This afternoon, I would like to tell you about a man who was given a second chance, much like I myself was given.”

Father Wyatt preached nothing at all like Roscoe had expected him to. The old preacher had had a voice like a creaking door, droning on and on while stood behind his pulpit, gripping the edge with his talon-like fingers, like a vulture on a perch. But the portly man before him spoke softly and freely, with a faint smile on his face. He began the weeks sermon with a story Roscoe could half remember from his confirmation training – Jesus raising Lazarus from the dead – but something seemed very different, Roscoe thought as he listened to the man talk. Embellishments he didn’t recognise from when the old preacher had told the story – of Lazarus’ deep sleep, waiting for his resurrection; of his vision of being woken, slowly pulled as if from deep water; of fire and a great lake. Roscoe sat as if spellbound – he wasn’t sure he could move if he tried. Father Wyatt’s words spread through the room like a fog, honeyed and thick, and it felt as if the preacher was speaking to him alone, the schoolroom empty around him.

Slowly, he realised Father Wyatt was looking at him as he spoke, his clever little eyes burning into him from across the room – and Roscoe felt a sudden cold, like snow water running down his back.

“Our friend Lazarus sleepeth; but I go, that I may awake him out of sleep.”

-

_This fear is only the beginning._


	7. I Fought the Law

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boy's night out bring consequences, with some worrying implications. Unlikely friends are made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, thank you for keeping up with this for seven chapters! This is a bit of an odd one, following the saloon brawl from chapter 5. Also, $100 was a lot in 1870.

“Rhyno!”

The blacksmith started at the sound of the familiar voice ringing through the workshop, nearly dropping the red-hot horseshoe he was working on. He looked up from the forge, squinting towards the door while he wiped at his sweaty brow. Heath had sounded distressed, like something was-

"Whoa-"

“You need to come with me _right now_ ,” the farmer said urgently. He had already crossed the floor and grabbed hold of Rhyno’s arm, barely giving him time to put down his tongs before he was being dragged off, confused and more than a bit worried. 

Somewhere past the butchers, he found his voice.

“Wait, Heath, where are we going? What’s happened?” he asked, but the farmer kept pulling him along, half running, half walking.

“We have to get to the Sheriff’s office. Corbin’s about to do somethin’ real bad,” Heath replied, short of breath as he hurried them down the main street, paying no heed to any of the curious onlookers turning to look after them, until they were outside the town jail, Heath already pushing the shorter man through the entrance. Rhyno half-stumbled in, trying to catch his breath.

The Sheriff and the Deputy seemed remarkably calm about this strange creature bustling through their doors. Deputy Breeze was seated with his boots resting on the Sheriff’s desk, wearing a bright silk necktie and a rather flash buffalo coat, while Sheriff Curtis leant against the edge of it, his hat tipped back and dressed in a suit that Rhyno could only describe as ‘brave’. Both looked like they didn’t quite know what was going on and were trying their best to look serious while they worked it out. Which wasn’t entirely out of character. After all, these were the same men who had once spent weeks looking for a stolen horse, only to find that it had been tethered at home the whole time, and had in fact never been reported missing.

And there, next to the Sheriff, stood Baron Corbin himself.

“How good of you to come, Smithy,” the shop owner stared back at the pair, something dark and pleased in his eyes as he looked down to where their hands were linked. Rhyno let go guiltily, already missing the warmth of Heath’s rough palm against his.

“What’s this all about?” he asked carefully. The Deputy gave him a horrified look, and the blacksmith was suddenly very aware of the state of his appearance, pulled straight from the forge as he was – his dirty apron and grimy hands, his damp, dishevelled hair…

“$100 for damages to my property, for disturbing the peace and inciting public violence, and for bringing unsavoury characters into my establishment,” the dark man said with a knife-sharp grin. 

“You can’t do that,” Heath protested. “That’s absurd!”

“Of course I can,” Corbin replied coolly. “Your little night out has done serious damage to my good name and reputation in town. It’s only right that I should seek compensation from the man responsible.”

Rhyno didn’t know what to say to that. It was a ridiculous notion – what name and reputation did Baron Corbin have in the town? He had power, sure, through his position and his family, but there wasn’t a person in town who trusted him. He was a bully. A cold-hearted snake who only cared for himself. Rhyno could only hope and pray the brawl in the saloon had been chaotic enough that Corbin hadn’t noticed the attack…

Luckily, Heath seemed to be taking the reins on his behalf.

“Mr. Curtis,” he said pleadingly, turning to address the Sheriff who looked like he had been miles away. “Rhyno ain’t responsible for anythin’ that happened on Friday. He was only ever actin’ in self-defence, I swear.”

“Stay out of this, _Slater_ ,” Corbin hissed at the red-haired man. “You just be happy I’m not charging you for those windows.”

“Don’t you dare, Baron,” Heath bit back, clearly struggling to keep calm. “You know darn well Jesse and Emmett didn’t have nothin’ to do with them.”

Things were getting very heated, very quickly. While the Sheriff and the Deputy were looking between the two men with a kind of confused boredom, Rhyno felt like he was watching something precious slip from his fingers and fall towards the ground, slow and inescapable.

“Hey, now, there’s no need for t-“ Rhyno tried to interject before it got too ugly, but was quickly cut off by Corbin and his dagger-like scowl.

“Don’t take me for a fool, Smithy. I know who started that fight, and I know who brought him in. And I would be _very_ happy to accept incarceration in place of the fine."

A deadly hush fell over the room once the words had been uttered, broken only by Deputy Breeze’s stunned whisper of “we can do that?” Rhyno swallowed. He couldn’t help but wonder what he had done to earn Corbin’s anger – to make him this eager to snare him. The man hadn’t mentioned the butchers once, even though he must have seen how they had egged Heath on. And now he was threatening to throw Rhyno in jail, and for what? No, this seemed different. Personal. Like Corbin had come to the jail with a plan. Go figure Rhyno would have to face this at the mercy of two idiots who had once cited “spectral werewolves” as the perpetrators behind a barn fire. 

“Uh, what about the other guy?” the Deputy piped up, breaking the tense stand-off. “You know, the one who threw the first punch. Why aren’t you taking this up with him?”

“Get money out of some travelling paddy? No point in even trying,” Corbin snorted, crossing his arms.

Besides him, Rhyno heard Heath draw a shaky breath, drawing himself up like he was steeling himself for a blow.

“They were only defendin’ me, Sheriff,” he said evenly. “Mr. Dawson made some… unkind remarks ‘bout me, and my guest took offense to them. If anyone should be prosecuted, it’s me.”

Rhyno could only gape in disbelief at the man. What on God’s green earth was he trying to do? He knew just as well as Rhyno that he could never hope to pay the bill – he would have to sell the farm to come up with that kind of money, or worse. The Sheriff looked to the taller man, raising a quizzical eyebrow.

To Rhyno’s great relief, Corbin only scoffed at the suggestion.

“Why, isn’t that touching,” he sneered at the farmer. “Mr. Curtis, I’m sure a man of your observant powers can tell this man is broker than the ten commandments. I wouldn’t get a single penny out of him, and I’m neither interested in any of his property, nor in sending him off to debtor’s prison.”

Heath bristled at the insults, but kept his mouth shut.

The Sheriff nodded seriously as he listened to Corbin talk. After a moment of seemingly deep thought, he spoke up, as if he had come over a great revelation.

“Why don’t you just ban him from the saloon?”

“Yeah, like you did with the Sandwell boys, when they started that other fight,” Deputy Breeze agreed, eager to latch on to what seemed like an easy solution. 

“What?” Corbin glared incredulously at the lawmakers, thrown by the sudden change. “No, I demand compensation,” he barked once he’d gathered his wits, making agitated gestures towards the blacksmith. “It’s all because of that brute _he_ brought in-“

“There’ll be no need for that.”

All eyes were drawn to the door and the source of the new voice. In the doorway stood Messrs. Scott Dawson and Dash Wilder, looking a little worse for wear, sporting a selection of bandages and fading bruises and black eyes.

“Gentlemen,” Dawson began, tipping his hat to the group with his good hand as they walked into the room. “We’ve heard everything, and we would like to take responsibility for our part in the skirmishes last Friday.”

“Scott is right. This is all a big misunderstanding,” Wilder picked up where his companion had left off. “While we did engage with Mr. Slater and his friends, they were entirely within their rights to retaliate. And I believe my business partner here – “ he nodded towards the other man, who only smiled and hooked his thumbs in the lapels on his jacket. “-will attest to Smithy behaving in a most exemplary way, considering the circumstances. We will happily pay for any damages that occurred.”  
He even gave Heath and Rhyno a cheeky wink. No one made a sound. Baron looked as though someone had slapped him, eyes about to fall out of his head.

“Well,” Sheriff Curtis said with an air of finality. “That seems to settle it.”

He stretched out a closed fist towards his deputy, who rapped his knuckles gently against it.

“Another case closed, Breezy.”

-

And that, it would seem, really was it. Case dismissed without any further ado.

They spilled out onto the street in a soupy disbelief, like their brains hadn’t quite caught up with the turn of events. It felt like they had been inside the jail for ages, but by the looks of it, they couldn’t have spent more than 45 minutes there. Outside, everything seemed to be going along as usual - the sun shone, people were going about their business, a tired horse drew a heavy carriage past them, dragging its feet on the dry ground.

“That, my friend,” Wilder said almost reverently, having waved off Heath and Rhyno’s protests. “Was the best fight we’ve had in ages. It’s the least we can do.”

“Don’t be a stranger, Slater. And give our regards to the big guy,” Dawson grinned, shaking Heath’s hand – the farmer could only make vague noises in return, even as the butchers left them there, standing in the middle of the dusty street. Rhyno could hardly believe what had just happened, or rather _all_ that had just happened, but it couldn’t be anywhere near whatever Corbin was currently experiencing. The man was staring wordlessly as Heath and Rhyno, a storm of emotion contorting his usually haughty, passive face to an ugly mask – fury, humiliation, resentment, anger, disgust, enmity, venom…

As he stalked towards the pair, Rhyno felt a hand grab his own. He looked up at Heath, who was meeting Corbin’s gaze head-on, even as Rhyno could feel his fingers nervously squeeze around his, palm sweaty.

“I’ll get you for this, Smithy,” Corbin spat, jabbing a finger at the shorter man, red-faced and seething with rage. “I’ll get you both. Just you wait and see. I will _end_ you.”

Rhyno let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding when the dark-clad man finally stomped off. God only knew what he was going to do to them – what he was capable of. It made the hair on his neck stand up.

But then he remembered Heath’s warm palm still against his, and it was as if it didn’t matter. Like the mere touch of Heath’s skin on his gave him courage to brave whatever storm was coming their way – Heath who had rushed to bring him to the jailhouse when he knew something was about to happen. Heath who had defended him in front of Baron.

_Heath who had offered to go to jail for him._

A surge of emotion went through him as he looked at his friend. Nothing else mattered. Not Corbin and his bitterness, not the threats, not tomorrow, nothing.

He squeezed his hand and felt Heath squeeze back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Breezango were more difficult to write than I thought they would be, but hopefully I got the balance right. I had too much fun imagining the outlandish western outfits they might wear.


	8. The Calm Before

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The day has come for Becky and Sheamus to leave. Rhyno hears something he's not supposed to. Heath does some thinking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For once, I'm updating this earlier than I thought I would! Thank you again to everyone who've left me such lovely comments - it's a terrible cliche, but they really do brighten up my day when I read them.

And so, the day had finally come. Becky and Sheamus were leaving Stillwater.

Their work was done, the harvest was over, and though they had become fond of their host family, it was time for them to continue their travels, going further west in the search for their cousin.

It was the evening before their departure, and they had all gathered in the farmhouse, filled with that special breed of grateful sadness one feels when saying goodbye to someone who was always going to leave – thankful for the time spent together, however brief it was, but nonetheless sad to see them go. They were all sprawled around the tiny house, happy and warm and full in a way that was rare at the Slater farm, simply enjoying each other’s company. The farewell dinner had been a humble feast. Rhyno had brought a slab of beef to make a stew, a gift from the butchers once they’d heard that their unlikely friend was leaving town, and a few pastries and sweets for after – an even rarer sight at the farm. Golden fried doughnuts and powdery sugar cakes and boiled sweets like gemstones, almost too precious to eat. The children had nearly refused to do so, holding them up to the light, mesmerised by the gleaming colours, before they even dared taste them.

Heath was sitting by the table, for once without a child crawling all over him, smoking his pipe as he watched Sheamus entertain the children. The towering Irishman was seated by the fireplace, telling stories and singing songs from his home, his captive audience following his every move. The twins had piled closest to him, laying on the floor on their bellies like little caterpillars, Roscoe sitting on the chest behind them. Besides him, Ruth had pulled a stool up to the heat and was smiling gently at the farmhand, Eliza on her lap playing with her rag doll - even Nellie the chicken had been allowed inside the house, happily snoozing in a basket by the fire. Becky had gone out a little while ago, keen to pack up some of her and her brother’s things in the barn where they slept, Harriet quickly following her to help.

“’S é dúirt sí liomsa,” Sheamus sang, moving his arms along with the lyrics. “‘imigh uaim, is scaoil ar siúl mé, a réic’”

Heath had no idea what the words meant, the language foreign to his ears, but he could just about guess from the man’s body language – the children all laughed along anyway, even if they didn’t quite understand. The farmer had a feeling Sheamus’s songs were probably quite rude, especially as he watched the man clearly miming some kind of hard-to-get maiden, but it didn’t matter, not now. It had far too long since he’d seen Roscoe laugh like this.

Looking at them, their carefree faces lit by the candles and lamps, Heath couldn’t help but think of Colleen. How she ought to be here to share it. He’d caught himself thinking more about her lately, with Sheamus and Becky around, and not simply because they reminded him of her. The farmhands had been a very welcome distraction, both for him and the young ones. A godsend, really, and some nights he had almost believed that she had been the one to send them their way. Without the two, he wasn’t sure how they would have got through his autumn. They would have managed the harvest, of course. They always did, and it was easier now that Roscoe was grown, but at what cost? Every year that passed seemed to exhaust them all – as hard as life had been while Colleen was alive, it had been nothing compared to this.

Heath sipped at his coffee, smiling as another peal of laughter rang out from near the fireplace. He could still remember the day she died, on what was supposed to be such a joyful day. The devastation he’d felt after Leroy’s birth, once he’d realised she was really gone – or rather, the complete and utter lack of feeling, that all-encompassing numbness that seemed to burrow itself into every corner of his body while his world fell apart around him. How he’d felt like he was walking underwater for days after, and when he’d resurfaced, his children had aged immeasurably before his eyes.

Now that the years had passed, the wound not quite so raw, he was able to think back beyond the grief, to the life they had had together. She had been a good woman. A good wife. A good mother. Good in every way – beautiful and strong, even as her body wore down. And then she was gone, in the blink of an eye. Before they had even been able to afford a photograph to remember her by. Heath could still see her, though, in the house and the land they had worked together. Could see her every day in her children – in Harriet’s strong, determined brows; in the twins’ upturned noses; in Eliza’s ears that she had yet to grow into, poking out beneath her bowl cut. When the grief reared its head, sore and ugly, he could piece her together from all these things, and suddenly, it was like she was standing before him.

Then again, he hadn’t had any reason for grief lately.

He looked over the table to where Rhyno was sitting, in what had become his place in the house. The blacksmith was playing with Leroy, or playing as well as he could, awkwardly taking a scrap of paper Leroy held out to him. He was glad the man had warmed to the Irish – he knew the stocky man wasn’t too fond of people and he appreciated him making the effort to come around, even as he was getting used to the strangers. He wasn’t sure how he’d feel if he’d stopped coming over. Leroy waddled back to the man from his hunt, handing him another scrap and Rhyno dutifully took it before Leroy waddled off again, not quite comfortable with the game, but with a secret smile on his face that Heath didn’t think the blacksmith even knew about. He looked relaxed. At home. 

Heath smiled, resting his head against his palm. Obviously, the shorter man didn’t look a thing like Colleen. He was nothing at all like her, in many ways, but there was something about him that filled the room with the same feeling she had. He had kind eyes, even if he would hide them behind that perpetual scowl. A soft heart. Rough, warm hands. Sometimes, Heath could feel his heart lift when he saw the dark-haired figure come up the path to the farmhouse, and it reminded him of how it used to feel when Colleen would come out to the fields while he worked, how he could see her solid figure in the distance, her voice carry through the air. And it was good to have someone around again, someone who cared, who tried his best. Across the table, Leroy was off to find more scraps. Rhyno straightened in his chair, placing a bit of string on the table-top, and for a moment their eyes met. Neither of them looked away. Heath smiled, head still cocked, resting on his palm, and Rhyno smiled back – he smiled easily now - before Leroy came back, holding a feather up in triumph.

Heath thought to himself that he wouldn’t mind if the man stayed.

-

A little later, while Heath and Sheamus cleared the table and the youngest children got dressed for bed, Rhyno excused himself and headed out to check on Luca. He crossed the little square between the farmhouse and the barn in unhurried steps, enjoying the crisp night air. As… annoyed as he had been with the farmhands to begin with, he would be sad to see them go. It was obvious that the family had blossomed with them at the farm, and in some ways, they were part of the family now. As he passed the lone tree, he could hear voices coming from within the bar – they weren’t very loud, but whoever it was sounded distressed. Could it be thieves? Were the girls still out? He had no doubt Becky could carry her own in a fight, but what if Harriet was in trouble? Carefully, Rhyno snuck up to the door. It was slightly ajar, spilling a strip of soft light onto the dark ground, and from here, he realised the voices were familiar. It was Becky and Harriet. He inched closer to the door, pressing himself against the wall so he was hidden in the shadows. He wasn’t quite sure why he was doing it – now that he knew who the voices were, it felt like he was intruding on something potentially private. But he was too close to simply wander in now, or to escape undetected. And Harriet had been awfully quiet all afternoon…

“ _Please_.” It was Harriet’s voice, clear and straightforward, though it sounded a bit rough, strained with emotion. “Please take me with you. I- I won’t need much. And I can help you-“

“I know, Harry. I know, but I can’t…” Becky this time, softer than the younger girl, and Rhyno wished he’d never gone out. He shouldn’t be hearing this.

“Please, you have to,” Harriet pleaded with the woman, her voice breaking. “If… If I stay here, nothing will ever change. I will work ‘til I can’t work no more, I’ll marry, and then I’ll die. And there’ll be nothin' more to me but a patch of dirt. I want to travel like you do, Becky. Be my own, not tied to anythin’ or anywhere.”

“What about your Da, Harry? And your brothers and your sisters?” Becky sounded closer to Harriet now. “You couldn’t do that to them. They _need_ you here.”

For a moment, everything was quiet, save for a gentle breeze blowing through the brush. Rhyno held his breath, scared to even blink. Then he could hear soft, wet sounds from the barn, like someone-

Rhyno felt his heart ache. Their strong-willed, stern-faced Harriet – the girl who had stared him down the first time he came out to the farm like nothing at all – was crying - sharp, hiccupping cries. The sound was soon muffled, Becky shushing the girl gently. Rhyno guessed she must have put her arms around her, maybe stroking her hair gently like a mother would, rocking her gently from side to side.

“Shhh, shhh. I know it’s difficult, Harry. But you’ll do a far better thing stayin’ here.”

Rhyno pulled away from the wall as quietly as he could, holding his breath until he was back by the tree again. He felt awful. Poor, poor Harriet – he couldn’t imagine anyone but Becky knew how she felt. The girl was too protective of her family to ever say anything. Maybe she had been hoping to silently slip away in the morning, never looking back again. He crossed over the square, hands in his pockets, feeling heavy with thought.

-

“…mó chúig céad slán chun dúiche m’athar…”

Sheamus was standing outside the house. At first, Rhyno could only see the orange ember of his pipe, before the rest of the man appeared out of the darkness, leaning against the wall next to the door and humming softly to himself.

“How was he then?” He asked once Rhyno was close enough.

“Hmh?” 

“Luca,” The Irishman said, taking the pipe out of his mouth.

“Oh. Uh, he was alright,” Rhyno replied, his brain slowly catching up with the other. “Has everything he needs.”

Sheamus nodded, putting his pipe back, blowing a puff of smoke into the cool air. Rhyno shifted from foot to foot, not sure if he was expected to say anything else, but Sheamus seemed pleased to simply have company, looking into the distance. Rhyno followed his line of sight, past the grounds and Stillwater, to the faint, faint outline of mountains in the distance, pale and silvery in the moonlight.

“Where will you go next?” he asked no one in particular.

“I’m not sure,” Sheamus replied, still looking far away. “We’ll head on west first, follow the road as far as we can. I’ve heard there might be some Irish settlements further into the plains. If nothin’ else, they might’ve heard word of Finn.”

Rhyno turned to the other man, though he couldn’t read his expression in the dim light, and he thought about the farmhands’ long journey. He’d travelled the road as a young man, too, after his apprenticeship was finished and he was expected to make it on his own, but he’d never been as far away from home – wherever home was – as the two were now. And still they were going further.

“I hope you find him.”

Sheamus didn’t say anything straight away, just stared back at the blacksmith, before he pushed away from the wall and spat on the ground.

“Well, wherever we go, there’ll be work,” he said simply. “But I appreciate it. We’ll miss you, my friend.”

“Uh, I-,” Rhyno stammered, feeling deeply out of his element. “Thank you. I’ll, uh, I mean… I’ll miss you too. You’ve-, you've been good to the farm.”

 _God almighty, Rhyno, have you lost the ability to speak like a human being?_ Luckily, Sheamus only grinned at the blacksmith’s pathetic attempt, and gave him a heavy pat on the shoulder.

“I better get back in,” Rhyno muttered, keen to escape into the warmth of the house, although he felt a little better.

“Hey,” Sheamus stopped him before he could open the door. Rhyno turned away from it, meeting the Irishman’s gaze – one that he’d seen before. A slight smile was pulling at the corner of his mouth.

“Take care of him for us, Rhyno.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The songs Sheamus sings are ‘Fáinne Geal an Lae’ and ‘An Spailpín Fánach’. Sheamus has ended up doing quite a bit of singing in this fic, though it’s in part just so I have an excuse to include some of my favourite Irish folk tunes… 
> 
> The particular snippets translate as such:
> 
> ’S é dúirt sí liomsa, “imigh uaim, is scaoil ar siúl mé, a réic” – She said to me “go away and let me go – you rake!”
> 
> Mó chúig céad slán chun dúiche m’athar - Five hundred farewells to the land of my father


	9. Bad Moon Rising

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The farmhands had hardly left town when the storm came.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heath can't catch a break...
> 
> Chapter title and opening lyrics from "Bad Moon Rising" by Creedence Clearwater Revival.

_I hear hurricanes a-blowing_

_I know the end is coming soon_

_I fear rivers overflowing_

_I hear the voice of rage and ruin_

-

The farmhands had hardly left town when the storm came.

It rolled in without warning and closed itself like a lid over the small town, the air heavy and dank. It rained like it hadn’t rained in years, the skies pouring out vast stores of hard, cold rain, washing away any remnants there might have been of the summer. Day after day – each greyer and drabber than the previous – it raged on without any end in sight, turning the streets into a muddy sludge, until anything else felt like a mere memory, distant and unclear.

-

Rhyno woke with a start. Outside the bedroom wall, he could hear the storm still howling – had been for more than a week now. Shivering, he fathered the blankets around himself, the fire in his room long dead. He’d had a dreadful nightmare. It had seemed so terribly real, though he couldn’t quite remember what had happened in it, only fragments - biting cold and deep waters, an endless road in front of him. Slowly, as he calmed a little, more and more pieces came back to him. He’d been in some kind of wilderness, bottomless waters on each side of the road, whipped up by the freezing wind and lapping at his feet with each wave. There nothing in the distance on either side of him, nothing but the road stretching into the darkness. He’d seen Heath. The man had been standing in the middle of the road, like he was sleepwalking, the waters threatening to separate them. He’d shouted to him, but no sound had come out. The waters were rising, reaching almost to his hips as he tried to run to the man – he’d reached out to him, but every time it seemed like he was about to catch the man’s hand, he would slip away, sinking into the dark deep…

Rhyno dragged a hand over his face. It had only been a bad dream. A figment of his imagination, brought on by this damned weather. Yet it wouldn’t leave him alone. He was by no means a superstitious man, but something told him that it had not been just a mere dream – that he needed to go see Heath. That something bad had happened at the farm.

He padded into the kitchen on bare feet, hoping a drink of water might clear his head. The rain was hammering against the windowpanes, the wind whistling in the chimney. Only a fool would go out in this weather, even more so at this time of night, but nothing seemed to do anything to quell the know of anxiety in his chest. He put his glass down and padded back to the bedroom.

-

Luca seemed equal parts distressed by the weather and confused at having been woken up so suddenly, stamping nervously in his pen when Rhyno pushed the stable door open and barged in, lamp in one hand and the other pulling on his old oilskin coat. There was an ancient cart in the far corner of the stable, buried behind hay bales and barrels and other rubble – it hadn’t been out for a long time, but Rhyno had a feeling he would need it if he tried to make the journey to the farm. He walked over to it with determined steps and began tearing down the mountain covering the cart, sending the items crashing to the floor. Behind him, Luca whinnied, agitated, hooves clacking against the ground.

After a while, Rhyno had managed cleared enough to get hold of one of the handles of the cart, but it seemed stuck, weighed down by the debris and disuse. The blacksmith braced a leg against the wall and pulled, and pulled, and pulled, sweating and cursing, but the cart wouldn’t budge.

He let go of it, taking a step back to catch his breath. As he stood there, muggy in his heavy coat, hands on his knees, glimpses of the nightmare came back to him. Heath’s hand slipping out of his. The farmer’s silhouette disappearing into the deep, sinking rapidly, like a stone -

Rhyno grabbed hold of the handle again, bracing himself, and with a groan of effort, the cart finally creaked, freeing itself and sending the blacksmith flying backwards onto the ground. 

-

The ride out to the farm was gruelling and icy cold. Rhyno wasn’t sure what time it was - it was pitch black, save for the faint glow from his lantern, though he doubted he would have been able to see much anyway with the wind and the rain in his face. Several times, Luca came to a halt, whinnying against the storm in protest, but Rhyno pulled on the reins, willing the old horse on until they were pulling up the familiar path.

He could hardly believe his eyes when they reached the farm.

The storm had uprooted the great tree between the house and the barn, and sent it crashing down onto the roof of the farmhouse. The blacksmith stood there, next to his horse, in dumbfounded silence, the wind howling in his ears. The storm seemed to be picking up again, thunder rolling in the distance, but he didn’t notice. All he could do was stare - the broken glass on the ground where a window had burst, the splintered wood, the deep gash in the earth where the tree had been ripped up, the gaping hole in the roof…

Suddenly, something grabbed hold of his hand and dragged him away from the house.

“Are you mad?! You can’t just stand there in this weather!”

Rhyno turned to look into Heath’s panicked face, still too stunned to say anything. The man was only in his shirtsleeves, wet down to his skin, his copper-coloured hair plastered to his forehead. Another clap of thunder roared, the sound closer this time.

“Come.”

-

The family had managed to seek shelter in the barn, unharmed, but shaken by the events. Even Beulah seemed frightened, moving and mooing nervously where she was tied in her pen.

“It didn’t hit no one, only took the roof off,” Heath said softly, sitting down on a feed box. He looked about ready to keel over. “Some miracle, I guess.”

Rhyno looked around the room, barely lit by a single oil lamp hung from a beam, as well as his own flickering lantern. Against all odds, the family had managed to drag a few things out of the house, but it wasn’t much. Just the bare essentials. The children looked weary, still in their sleep-clothes, like they had been woken up by the disaster. Harriet was sitting near Beulah’s pen with Eliza on her knee, singing softly to the girl as she drifted in and out of sleep. Ruth was pacing the floor listlessly with Leroy in her arms, trying to calm the little boy down. The twins were huddled together, quiet and downcast, while Roscoe stood by the window, distantly staring out of it. He hadn’t even turned around when Heath and Rhyno had entered the barn.

“Right,” he announced into the room. “You’re coming with me.”

That, at least, caught everyone’s attention.

“You can’t mean-“ Heath started, staring in disbelief at the stocky man, but Rhyno cut him off.

“You are, and that’s the end of it. You can’t stay here, Heath, it’s not safe here.”

Rhyno was faintly surprised at his own assertiveness, but it really wasn’t a matter of debate. The house was out of the question for as long as the storm continued, he’d seen that with his own eyes, and the barn wasn’t fit for living, damp and cramped and drafty as it was. And so they bundled up what few things they had, loading some onto Beulah’s back, the rest going onto Luca’s cart along with the youngest children, and set off to Stillwater, as pitiful a parade as anyone had seen - cold and wet to the bone, dressed in thin nightshirts and dresses, some of the children without shoes on, led by an old horse and a skittish cow.

-

Rhyno’s house was nothing special, just a simple two-room home with a porch, wall to wall with the workshop, but to the miserable group, it might as well have been a castle – a gleaming light appearing in the distance. The march into town had been long and arduous. Every few miles, the thick mud would clog the wheels of the cart, forcing them to stop and free it with their bare hands, until their fingers were numb with cold.

As soon as they were indoors, Rhyno hurried the family into the kitchen, making sure to get the fire going before he headed out to lock Beulah and Luca in the stable. When he came back inside, they had gathered near the iron stove, soaking up what warmth they could, too cold and tired to do much but to sit still, dozing. Heath sat furthest away from the stove, looking down at his hands as he pressed and squeezed them to get the blood flowing again.

Rhyno hung his oilskins up to dry by the door. The disaster at the farm hadn’t quite sunk in yet, although he could feel it seeping in. while the storm had raged through the town for days on end, there had been minimal damage – a toppled shed here and there, the odd sign torn down – but for the most part, the houses sheltered each other from the worst winds. The workshop had been fine, Rhyno had made sure to secure the doors and cover up the few windows he had when it had first started.

But the farm was isolated. Open and alone, without anything to take the brunt of the storm. Maybe could have been a lot worse, but it still felt monumentally unfair. It always had to be them. It was as if a great cosmic finger had descended from the sky to point down at the pale farm and announce that Heath Slater should never, ever catch a break. Rhyno didn’t want to think to deeply about it there and then, but he knew in the back of his mind that it wasn’t over with this. It would take weeks to get the materials needed to repair the roof and the broken windows, plus time to perform the repairs, and that wasn’t taking into account the cost of it all…  
And now the poor family were sitting in his kitchen, worn-out and silent, almost like they had already accepted everything.

Like it was no surprise that it had happened, or that it had happened to them.

As quiet as he could, not wanting to bother the others, Rhyno began rifling through his cupboards, pulling out boxes and cans, as well as a few bottles of milk from the morning and a saucepan, quickly whisking together everything he needed, before shuffling over to the stove and placing the saucepan on the heat. The children didn’t seem to pay him any mind at first, too deep in themselves, until the first little nose sensed that something peculiar was being cooked in front of them. One by one, they stirred, curious eyes following the dark man as he walked over to a cabinet to find cups – there weren’t enough for all, so a few would have to make do with glasses and other containers. Rhyno grabbed a ladle and returned to the stove with his hoard, pulling the saucepan off the heat and ladling out equal measures of the light brown liquid, passing them on, one cup at a time, until everyone had one, almost afraid to break the reverent hush that had fallen over them. 

For a long while, no one said a thing. And no one drank. Rhyno could feel the niggling of worry – he hadn’t made it in a long, long time. Maybe he’d done something wrong, boiled the milk for too long or added too little sugar. Christ, he'd probably only made it worse...

Then Jesse piped up.

“Uhm. What is it, Uncle Rhyno?” the boy asked wide-eyed.

Rhyno breathed out in relief. He should have known.

“It’s cocoa,” he explained to a wall of blank faces. “My grandmother would make it for me when I was sick, or when I couldn’t sleep…”

Still a little hesitant, but keen to look brave in front of his siblings, Jesse lifted the cup to his lips and took a tentative sip of the steaming liquid.

The others watched the boy carefully, like they thought he might suddenly catch fire from it. Jesse didn’t say anything for a few moments, putting the cup down and licking his lips.

“How is it?” Ruth asked, the suspense too much even for her. 

“Like…” the freckled boy began, like he didn’t know the right words to truthfully describe it. He licked his lips again. “Like… like magic or s'mthin'...”

Soon enough, the little kitchen was filled with cooing and gentle laughter, smiles breaking out as the children discovered the new treat. They were warming up, red little cheeks and bright eyes, even as some of the more eager ones burned their tongues drinking their share too quickly. Rhyno sat down at the corner of the table watching them happily while he sipped from his sugar bowl of cocoa. There was still much they needed to work out, the house still stood half-ruined at the farm, but seeing them able to enjoy themselves on a night like this made it all seem a little less immense. Heath sat across from him at the other corner, smiling at him as he warmed his hands on his jam jar. He had cocoa in his moustache and warm, red cheeks.

-

Before long, the cocoa was gone, and the late hour and the ordeals they had been through began to take their toll on them all. It was somewhere in that strange space between night and early morning – far past bedtime for even the oldest of them. It was just a matter of figuring out where to fit everyone in Rhyno’s humble bachelor dwelling. The blacksmith had barely had visitors in his house before, and now there seemed to be people everywhere – strewn throughout the two rooms, on every available surface, wrapped in whatever rags and clothes Rhyno had laying around.

The girls and Leroy took the kitchen, huddling near the dying embers of the fire – Harriet on the bench, Leroy in her arms, wrapped up in her shawl; Ruth on the floor by the fire and Eliza on the kitchen table under Heath’s coat, no weight to her little body at all. The boys took the bedroom, partially as Rhyno had been too embarrassed by the state of it to let the girls in. Roscoe had refused to take the bed when Rhyno had offered and had instead rolled his jacket up under his head and laid down by the door, while Jesse and Emmett curled up in a corner like puppies.

Which left Heath and Rhyno with...

Oh.

_Oh no._

As he stood by the foot of his bed, Rhyno had a feeling this was going to be a lot harder than he’d imagined.


	10. A Fair Shake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rhyno experiences co-habitation for the first time in a many, many years. It's both easier and harder than he'd expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter has taken longer than usual, I've been travelling lately, but I hope you like it. As you can tell, I enjoy making Rhyno flustered.

Rhyno stood in the kitchen, feeling somewhat ridiculous as he fretted over dinner. Heath had gone out early in the morning, taking Roscoe with him, and if everything had gone to plan, they ought to be riding back into town about now. It had taken a few days for the storm to calm down enough for it to be safe to return to the farm and assess the damage on the house, and Rhyno couldn’t help but feel nervous on behalf of the family. He could remember, clear as day, how he’d stood and stared at the great gash in the roof while the rain whipped around him. The repairs would be costly, no doubt, and they would take time, especially when they couldn’t afford to hire extra help. But somewhere behind the nervousness, Rhyno could feel a guilty spark of hope at the thought of the family having to stay with him for longer.

It had been a bit of a shock to suddenly have so _much_ around him, when he was used to being by himself most of the time, but it hadn’t taken him long to get used to it – surprisingly so. After just a few days, he found he didn’t mind them being around much at all. Rhyno stirred the pot of soup, lost in thought. It was a rare pocket of calm in the day, the children playing quietly in the same room, Ruth sitting at the kitchen table, knitting while Leroy and Eliza laid on the floor, drawing on a large piece of brown paper Rhyno had found, the twins playing some kind of card game next to them. Harriet had gone out a while ago to deliver something to one of Rhyno’s customers.

The door was flung open abruptly, scaring Rhyno half out of his skin.

“Eliza! Heath shouted happily as he stepped into the kitchen, Roscoe following behind. Over his head, held aloft like a trophy, the farmer was holding a rather dishevelled and confused-looking chicken. “Look who we found!”

Eliza jumped up from the floor and let out an ear-splitting shriek – loud enough to make Harriet, who had evidently been just around the corner, barge through the door like she thought someone was being murdered. Nellie let out a bewildered ‘bwaak’ at the commotion, peering around at the group gathering around her. Grinning from ear to ear, Heath handed the creature to Eliza, who immediately cradled it in her little arms, pressing it to her chest.

“Found her under the bed,” Heath turned his carefree grin towards Rhyno, who was still standing by the hob, clutching his ladle like a weapon. “Looks like Eliza must’ve snuck her in right before she went to bed,” he whispered conspiratorially, and Rhyno couldn’t help but return the smile, looking at the little girl dancing around the kitchen with her feathery friend, near tears with joy. He had meant to question the man about the farm, about the damage and the work and plans that laid ahead of them, but it could wait. Supper was ready and they had an occasion to celebrate – maybe even an occasion happy enough to send Ruth down to the bakery to get some honey cakes. Besides, there would be plenty of time to talk about the farm later.

-

The next day came and passed without any word about what Heath had seen at the farm. Rhyno didn’t want to pry, he knew it had to be difficult for the man, but it also wasn’t like Heath to be this quiet about something. So he kept quiet and waited for the man to open up, and another day passed like the previous, without any mention.

Rhyno woke in the middle of the third night to find the bed empty. Dazed with sleep, he stared into the darkness of the room, just able to make out the shape of Roscoe laying by the foot of the bed, the twins in the other corner. The house was completely silent – amazingly so for having 7 children in it, or perhaps he had just got used to it over the past few days. Half-asleep, he reached out to feel the other half of the bed. The slim strip of mattress between himself and the wall was empty, though some warmth still lingered. It was highly unusual. Unlike himself, who had yet to adjust to having another person share his bed, Heath slept like a rock through the night, greedy for rest like someone who had long been denied it.

Rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, Rhyno threw his legs over the edge of the bed, wincing as his bare feet hit the cold floor. He reached out, fumbling blindly until he found an old pair of slippers beneath the bed, stepping into them and took his tattered dressing gown from the bedpost to pull over his nightshirt. Taking care not to stir the sleeping forms in the room, he picked the lamp up from the bedside table, tiptoed through the room to the door and slipped through to the kitchen. There was no sign of Heath there either – just the soft, steady hum of the children breathing in their sleep. It was a strangely comforting sound, knowing they were safe and restful, even when they were squeezed in where they could, sleeping on whatever surface that was available. Shuffling past the bench, he reached for the front door, prying it open as quietly as he could.

He almost didn’t see Heath at first – only the ember of his pipe, glowing orange against the dark night where he was sat on the step of the porch. Carefully, Rhyno lit his lamp, slowly illuminating the man, the heavy slope of his back towards the door.

Rhyno stood awkwardly in the doorway, not wanting to disturb the farmer. The night around them was so dark it seemed deafening – no light anywhere apart from the pale moon and the stars and the lamp in Rhyno’s hand. How long had Heath been sitting here, lost in thought, staring into nothing? Putting the lamp down by the door, he retreated back into the house, returning to the porch with a blanked it one hand and a quart of whiskey in the other.

Heath didn’t react until Rhyno threw the blanket around his shoulders, startled out of whatever it was that he had been contemplating. For a moment, he looked up at Rhyno with a far-away look in his eyes, like he wasn’t quite sure where he was, before he shook it off.

“Couldn’t sleep either, huh?” he asked with a half-hearted smile while the blacksmith sat down next to him. Rhyno only nodded and handing him the whiskey bottle, watching Heath’s throat bob as he took a swig, before passing it back to the other man.

They sat in silence for a moment, the weight of the last few days hanging between them. Rhyno was itching to ask what was weighing on the farmer’s mind, what had been weighing on it ever since he’d returned from his first trip to the farm after the storm, but he knew the man would talk when he was ready. Or he hoped he would. He could wait until then. He was good at waiting.

“I dreamt that I had to send the kids away,” Heath begun, answering the unspoken question. “It’s been comin’ back the last few days. Same dream ev’ry time - never know where I’ve sent them or who they’re with, just that they’re safe but… but not with me.”

There was a moment of unease as Heath took another swig of whiskey. He clearly had more on his mind, and was trying to sort through it, to find the right way of saying it.

“They’ve given me a quote for the materials,” the farmer said into the night. “It’s goin’ to be more than I thought. A lot more. Somethin’ about how they don’t do the old tiles anymore or…”

The ginger man wasn’t looking at him as he spoke. Wasn’t really looking anywhere. He looked young and unsure, lit only by the paraffin lamp between them, his hair soft with sleep – Rhyno noticed his feet were bare, the old trousers he slept in too short, stopping well above the ankle.

“I-I don’t know how we’ll be able to afford it all,” Heath continued, dragging his free hand through his hair. “Not with all the work we’re missin’ out on, not with-“

“Stay here,” Rhyno said softly. He couldn’t get the ‘please’ out, even though he could feel it on his tongue, so close. Heath let out a breath, his shoulders dropping. Rhyno could feel the weight of him lean against him.

“I can’t, Rhyno,” he replied, finally looking the shorter man in the eyes. “Look at us. We’re burstin’ through the walls. It wouldn’t be fair on you.”

 _‘Damn what’s fair!’_ Rhyno wanted to say. He wanted to shout it at the other man. Nothing was fair, especially not for Heath Slater. The storm hadn’t torn the roof off Corbin’s saloon, hadn’t broken the windows on Wyatt’s church. The only ‘fair’ you got was what you made yourself. Rhyno wished, deep down into his bones, that he could make the sad, resigned look in Heath’s eyes disappear - wanted to take the man by the shoulders and shake him and tell him that he’d already got used to having them around. That he _wanted_ him to stay.

But he didn’t. Instead, he had another mouthful of whiskey, looking down at his hands while he gave a muttered “I wouldn’t mind.”

“That’s real kind of you. And I appreciate you lettin’ us stay here for now, with everythin’,” Heath said, taking the bottle as he was handed it. “But we have to get back to the farm eventually. Somehow. It’s all we have. It needs us, and I think we probably need it, too.”

They didn’t say anything more after that. Just sat together until the whiskey was gone, the stars above them cold and white, their hands brushing as they passed the quart between them.

A few days later, the family sold Beulah, having struck a meagre deal with one of the nearby farms. Rhyno tried very hard not to think about anything at all.

-

The repairs began.

The days became a week, then two, and the strange, makeshift family fell into a routine of sorts – Heath and Roscoe heading off to the farm in the morning while Rhyno walked next door to the workshop, the youngest children left in the care of Harriet and Ruth, then everyone coming together at home in the evening. It was a comfortable life, one of quiet contentment, even though they were aware their time together would sooner than later come to an end. Or maybe because of it.

Of course, their arrangement hadn’t escaped the attention of the townspeople – few things did, and it was hard to miss the gaggle of red-haired children who suddenly seemed to spill out of the blacksmith’s home every day, playing in the streets or following behind Rhyno when he went to the store, like a flock of ducklings. To the blacksmith’s surprise, the shopkeeper hadn’t banned them after their little episode at the Sheriff’s office – probably because the man was too much of a merchant to miss out on the revenue – but he saw how Corbin kept a close eye on the family whenever they were near, following them with his dark, beady eyes. There were things to come, Rhyno knew it, and yet he couldn’t find it in him to care.

He’d never been happier.

Not in a thousand years would he have thought he would appreciate having his house full of people – and children on top of that – a delightful jumble as everyone got used to their new surroundings. Every day, he would go to work and look forward to that point where he could finally put his tools down and go next door, to find his home warm and bustling and alive. Even the sweet torture of sharing a bed with the farmer was bliss.

This day was no different. The memory of the storm fading, Rhyno found himself humming under his breath as he stood over the forge, hammering a pair of red-hot shear blades in time with his tune. He could hear the faint noise of the house through the walls – laughter and chatter, light steps running from side to side, the odd cry of glee – testament of a home that continued even while he wasn’t there. Heath had come home early from the farm, and Rhyno smiled to himself at the thought of having a whole evening together, turning the blades over in the fire. As soon as he was done with the shears, he could call it a day and head back to the house and its sweet domesticity. Finally, he dunked the blades in the bucket next to the forge, listening to the water hiss around them while he pulled off his apron. They were still hissing lowly when he hung the apron up next to the door adjoining the workshop to the house, and stepped straight into the kitchen.

As it turned out, today wasn’t just any day.

It was bath day.

The kitchen was a mess, but a very merry one, the children barefoot and scrubbed, clothes damp where they had dragged against the wet floor. Even stone-faced Harriet had rolled up her sleeves, laughing along with the younger children as she helped comb Leroy’s hair, Roscoe observing the mayhem with some amusement from the other side of the table. 

And in front of the stove, in Rhyno’s old metal wash tub, was Heath. The twins and Eliza were running around him, pouring pitchers of water on their father’s head and shrieking as he tried to splash them, grabbing at Eliza’s little arms as if to drag her into the tub.

“Uh,” Rhyno said eloquently, not sure where to look.

“Hi, don’t mind us, Rhyno,” Heath grinned, pushing the hair out of his eyes, only to have another bowl-full of water poured over him. “Sorry ‘bout the mess.”  
Rhyno didn’t reply, too preoccupied with trying not to stare at Heath’s freckled shoulders or his farmer’s tan or his long, shapely legs hanging over the rim of the too-small tub. It was the body of a man who lived off the earth, tall and strong and sinewy. It made him look crude in comparison. Half-formed. A lump of lead, singed and burnt by the forge he toiled over. Heath didn’t seem to pay his nakedness any mind, sprawled in the basin with only the soapy water to cover him, even with Rhyno hovering nearby, his back pressed against the wall to avoid the whirlpool of children still running about.

“You should come in,” the farmer smiled up at him, something mischievous in his tone as he leant back against the rim of the tub. Rhyno felt his mouth go dry. There was a drop of water running down the man’s throat to his chest, disappearing into the suds. “Water’s lovely.”

Dinner came and passed. Rhyno ate, but didn’t taste any of it, didn’t hear a word of what was said around the table, his mind thin and watery-

-

Rhyno was laying on his side, watching Heath’s back rise and fall as he slept. He felt almost guilty as he watched the man, so close in the cramped bed he could see the freckles on his neck, the line where his tan ended, the edges of his short-cropped hair where it was still damp from his bath. The urge to reach out and touch him was stronger than ever, had been ever since he’d seen the red-haired man washing, but he kept his hands firmly down. The farmer shifted in his sleep, breathing softly. Their dwindling time together loomed over the blacksmith like a rain-logged cloud, threatening to empty its reserves any minute – the work at the farm was slow, but it was steadily progressing, even with only Heath and Roscoe there. The end was creeping closer.

He didn’t want him to leave. He didn’t want any of them to leave. He wanted to come home to this warm, now-familiar chaos every single day – a house full of children and Heath waiting for him, welcoming him. Rhyno stared at the sleeping farmer, tracing the soft curve of him, from his shoulder to his hip, with his eyes, trying to commit the shape to memory, like he might lose it when the morning came.

Suddenly, Heath stirred. He reached behind, feeling about for something until Rhyno felt the other man’s hand take his, and slowly, without turning, he pulled it closer, draping the blacksmith’s arm over his side, and pressed his palm against his chest.

Rhyno thought he might burn up. There was no way Heath was still asleep – he could feel the man’s heart beating beneath his palm, rabbit-quick, with only a thin night shirt separating his skin from touching Heath’s. He scarcely dared to breathe, acutely aware of the others in the room, the children just on the other side of the door. Neither man moved. Rhyno’s breath was coming out in hot, near-panicked puffs against Heath’s nape, and he could feel the farmer’s pulse against his palm, beating in time with the blood in his ears, two twin bass drums. Heath’s hand tightened around his, keeping it pressed against his chest, pulling them closer against each other.

Rhyno didn’t sleep a wink all night.


	11. Utopia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A surprise, and a hard decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello and sorry for the incredible delay on this! I've been on holiday with limited access to a computer, but am hoping to get back to a more or less regular update schedule, like before. This chapter is also sad as shit, I'm very sorry...
> 
> Chapter title, as well as opening and end quotes are from "Utopia" by Goldfrapp.

_It’s a strange day_   
_No colours or shapes_   
_No sound in my head_   
_I forget who I am_   
_When I’m with you_

-

It had been Heath’s idea. They had all been crowded around Rhyno’s small kitchen table for one of their last dinners together, the farmhouse almost fit for living again, when he’d announced that he had some great news for everyone.

Apparently, the farmer had been out on an errand when he’d run into Doctor Castagnioli, who had told him that he had a travelling photographer lodging with him. The photographer was only staying for a short while, but the Doctor had let him set up a temporary studio in his home while he was in town, so he might earn a little for his remaining journey, and if Heath was interested in the man’s services, he could probably get him a small discount. After thinking about it, Heath explained, and knowing there was a little money left over from what they had got for Beulah, he’d jumped on the chance.

In fact, they had an appointment with the photographer the very next day.

They were finally going to have their family picture.

The reaction had been immediate - the children were overjoyed, then that joy had been replaced with immediate worries about their clothes and appearance and whether they could be ready on such short notice, then back to joy again. The rest of the evening had been spent in a merry chaos, everyone running about, making sure everything was washed and cleaned and pressed for the big day, and the next morning, bright and early, they were standing on the steps of Doctor Castagnioli’s house, cold and eager and brimming with anticipation.

“My friends, how lovely you look!” the Doctor cried as he opened the door, looking down at the motley crew who had crowded onto his doorstep, grinning up at him. “Please, do come in!”

-

“I don’t believe you have visited my home before, no?” Doctor Castagnioli asked, watching the long line of people filing through the door.

Heath and Rhyno could only shake their heads in silent tandem as they crossed the threshold, trying their best not to stare as they took in their surroundings. The children had no such qualms, oooh-ing and aaah-ing at the comparative luxury of the Doctor’s house, far beyond what they knew from the farm and Rhyno’s lonely workman’s house.

“Well, you are most welcome,” the Doctor said, and it sounded like he truly meant it. “Me and Sasha do not entertain guests as often as we would like, and she will be happy to have children in the house. This way, my friends,” he beckoned with one hand, leading them away from the door and down a corridor. “Your photographer awaits you.”

As far as Rhyno could tell, the house was beautifully decorated, betraying the Doctor’s relative wealth and exotic origins – sumptuous wallpapers and wooden panels and curious foreign-looking items on tables and shelves. Most of the walls were covered in photographs and pictures, depicting unfamiliar landscapes, buildings and people, presumably from the Doctor’s former life, before Stillwater. The Doctor himself was more than happy to talk about them, pointing to the odd photograph as they passed it, explaining its origin, eyes crinkling with amusement at the children’s curiosity as they trailed behind him, staring wide-eyed at all the new sights. As they rounded a corner, the Doctor went on to explain how he had caught wind of the mysterious photographer. Like so many others, the man had seemingly just appeared in town one day, carrying his entire shop in a huge bundle on his back. He had only meant to pass through Stillwater to rest and stock up on supplies before continuing east to the city, when he had met the Doctor at the post office, and once the Doctor had learned that the traveller was a stranger in the country like himself, he had immediately insisted that he lodge in his house for as long as he needed.

While listening to the bald man speak, Rhyno couldn’t help but think to himself that Dr. Castagnioli had to miss home something terrible. He always seemed to have a great thirst for anything and anyone who could keep him connected to his birth country, and Rhyno realised that he didn’t actually know where it was, or even what had brought had brought the good Doctor so far away from it to begin with. Just that he had travelled extensively before coming to a halt in little Stillwater. Maybe that was why he gravitated so easily towards anyone who seemed out of place, like this photographer, and Sheamus, and the Slaters. And perhaps Rhyno himself, as well.

The studio turned out to be little more than a spare room in the good Doctor’s house where the photographer had spread out the equipment of his trade – the camera with its curious, accordion-like body, perched on wooden legs like an exotic bird; thick, black paper covering the windows and a painted backdrop hanging from the ceiling, several more rolled up in a corner. The backdrop looked well-worn, faded and fraying a little at the edges, but it was pretty enough with its softly painted trees and flowers and gentle garden bridge – alien compared to the desolate landscape outside the makeshift studio.

The photographer himself was no less out of place.

Mr. Gallagher – or “Gentleman Jack Gallagher” as he had introduced himself as, though Rhyno wasn’t quite sure what the “gentleman” part of it really meant - was a bouncy little Englishman, dressed in a chequered suit, with a twinkle in his eye and a twitching, reddish-brown moustache.

“Pleased to make your acquaintance,” he smiled at the group, having shaken everyone’s hand, all the way down to Leroy, who was hiding shyly behind Heath’s legs. “And such lovely colours! What a pity it is that no one has invented a way to capture it on film. Oh, well, we’ll have to imagine. Shall we?”

-

“He’s a fancy little fella, ain’t he?” Heath half-whispered, leaning towards Rhyno. It was no small feat fitting everyone into the studio, not to mention fitting everyone into the picture itself, and the two men had quickly found themselves relegated to the side-lines while Mr. Gallagher whisked back and forth in front of the fake gardenscape, moving chairs and potted ferns and children and plaster pillars like he was trying to solve a puzzle.

“You can say that again,” Rhyno replied. The farmer wasn’t wrong. Everything about the pale man seemed much too fancy for a place like Stillwater - from the way he walked to his curious accent to his manner of dress – and not at all what he had expected when he’d heard the Doctor’s story. He pulled at his collar, feeling the heat of the small room, even with the cool autumn outside. 

He hadn’t expected to be part of the picture. When Heath had announced his plans, the blacksmith been happy for the family, promising the children to order a copy for himself, but it had never occurred to him that “family” included him. It was their long-awaited picture, after all, the only other person who ought to be in it would have been the late Mrs. Slater - there had been no discussion about whether “Uncle Rhyno” should join them or not, and so he’d thought that was that.

That was, until the morning after, when Heath had barged into the bedroom after helping the children dress, asking why he wasn’t ready yet. Soon, he’d found himself rummaging through the deepest parts of his wardrobe until he found the old, dark suit he’d worn for his grandparents’ funeral. A little dusty, but otherwise fine, unworn for decades – it was a wonder it still fit him. it seemed such a long time ago, back when he’d still been an apprentice. He could remember travelling all those miles back to his hometown, to stand near-alone in the old graveyard, watching as the people who had raised him were lowered into the ground, side by side with his parents, returned to the same earth they had worked their entire lives. In some way, it had been comforting.

“I’m glad you could be here with us today, Rhyno,” Heath turned to smile at him. The farmer looked radiant in his simple finery, his soft linen shift and best coat, hair combed neatly. “As you’ve probably noticed, we never got to have any pictures taken while Colleen was alive,” he continued, adjusting the necktie he’d borrowed from Rhyno – a gentle cornflower blue that Rhyno had known would contrast beautifully with his beard, even if it wouldn’t show in the picture. A rare indulgence, just for him. “There was never any time or money for that kinda thing. But I’m glad we finally get to have our family picture, you an’ me an’ the kids.”

_You and me and the kids._

For some reason the words didn’t sit right with Rhyno, though he didn’t have time to process why before the snappy little photographer skipped over to them and pulled the men towards the makeshift stage, the two missing pieces of his puzzle. Everything had gone so quickly that morning, it was as if his mind hadn’t caught up with it all, and an unusual feeling was growing inside the blacksmith as he was placed in a chair next to Heath, Eliza crawling onto his lap. It wouldn’t let go, his whole body murmuring as he turned what the farmer had said over and over in his mind – _you and me and the kids, you and me and the kids._ Something seemed off about it. Wrong. Besides him, Mr. Gallagher was putting his finishing touches on the group, straightening ties and making sure the girls’ skirts were draped just right, making the children giggle with anticipation.

Rhyno felt like he was underwater as he looked around the room, at the children in their Sunday best, worn but clean and ironed, at the artificial garden behind them and Eliza on his lap. The Englishman had stepped back to have one final look at the plateau he’d created and, evidently pleased, walked back to the camera, readying the plate for the picture. _You and me and the kids._ Why hadn’t Heath’s words made him happy? Wasn’t that all he’d wanted, once he’d allowed himself to want it – to be with Heath and the children? Looking to his right, he met Heath’s eye, and the farmer smiled warmly at him, that special smile Rhyno had grown so used to seeing, and a thought suddenly came to him - 

_This shouldn’t be me._

“All ready, ladies and gentlemen!”

Behind the camera, Mr. Gallagher had disappeared beneath a blanket, shouting at the family to hold still. Rhyno quickly tore his eyes away from Heath and looked ahead, but the thoughts were still racing through him. Where Heath’s warm gaze usually filled him with almost painful joy, there had now only been black, trickling guilt. It shouldn’t be him. He shouldn’t be the one sitting here with Eliza on his knee, side by side with Heath. He had no place being there -a stain on their long-awaited family photograph. As soon as the thought had wormed its way into his mind, he couldn’t stop it. It shouldn’t be him. He shouldn’t be here. This wasn’t what Heath needed, some old, beat-up bachelor. He’d been fooling himself, playing house with someone who needed a real family, a home, a future. He needed to do something. He needed to give Heath back his chance at a normal life.

He needed to make sure Heath forgot him.

There was a noise, a sharp flash illuminating the family for a second, and then it was done. 

-

Rhyno couldn’t sleep. He’d been awake for hours, laying in bed, listening to Heath’s even breaths next to him - the farmer laid close enough that he could feel them blow gentle over his skin, close enough that he could put his arms around the man if he wanted to. And he wanted to. Wanted so badly to pull him close and fall asleep with him cradled against his chest, but every time he closed his eyes, he could see the flash of the camera, the moment imprinted on his eyelids.

The days spent with the family had been some of the happiest he’d ever had, in a life that had otherwise passed quietly, week by week. It felt like he’d been within touching distance of something he’d never imagined for himself, a life he’d never dared dream of. But there was no way they could go back to how it had been, however much it hurt Rhyno. Not now. 

Once his eyes had been opened, he realised how close he had brought the family to ruin. The family was too exposed – open and defenceless like their farm in the storm, too vulnerable to social isolation. He’d seen the looks people would throw their direction, once the family had moved in with him, the way Corbin would lean in close to his other customers whenever they entered the shop. How could he have been so foolish? So selfish? He could only hope there was still time to save the family.

Rhyno looked at Heath’s sleeping face, his lashes fanned out against still-tanned skin. Would it fade once winter had begun? Would the freckles dim with the cold, or would they keep their colour, scattered across the man’s skin? Rhyno closed his eyes and tried to think of every time he’d felt the warmth of Heath’s directed at him, the still-new joy of possibly being the source of that warmth, and he felt like a thief.

He needed to do something, and he could tell it was going to be difficult. He only hoped it wouldn’t hurt Heath too much. 

-

The night had trickled by somehow, second by second, until it was finally morning and time for the family to leave. Rhyno was hovering tiredly by the kitchen sink, feeling antsy as he watched the Slaters pack up their meagre possessions. Though their time together had come to an end, the mood was by no means sombre. If anything, it seemed like any other day – the children chatting amongst themselves while Heath made sure everything was packed, bags and knapsacks and bundles and chickens gathered by the door, ready to be carried out. From the little snippets Rhyno could catch, the main subject of the children’s chatter was still the not-yet-finished family picture; Ruth whispering to her older sister about their dresses and the funny little photographer; Emmett asking Jesse when he thought it might be done, the cakes they’d been served after the picture had been taken, and, a little softer, how pretty the Doctor’s wife had been.

“Ok, we’re all good,” Heath said with a groan, straightening his back from where he had been stooped over the luggage. “Why don’t you guys take this with you and wait for me outside?”

Having said their goodbyes to the blacksmith – Leroy and Eliza throwing their little arms around his neck and demanding to know when he’d be visiting next, Roscoe clasping his hand in his large, rough palm, thanking him politely for his hospitality and care – the children crowded out the door, waving happily at Rhyno who managed a gentle wave back, the unease growing inside him. He could feel it getting closer, with nowhere to turn. Once the sound of the children had disappeared, muffled by the door, Heath lifted the last knapsack onto his back and walked over to where Rhyno was standing. It was odd seeing Heath back in his shirtsleeves after the previous day at the studio, his hat pushed back as he leant his hip against the sink, hair soft and sunny. The farmer smiled softly, looking at the other man for a moment before he spoke.

“I, uh, just wanted you to know how much I’ve appreciated stayin’ here,” he started, looking away. “Not just ‘cause of the kids ‘n everythin’, but, uh, for me as well.” He reached out to take Rhyno’s hand in his as he spoke, searching for the words, thumb stroking against the other’s. “It’s gonna be strange goin’ back to sleepin’ in my own bed now,” he said with a gentle laugh, and Rhyno felt terrible. If he didn’t know better, he’d say Heath looked like a man in love, young and almost bashful.

_It shouldn’t be me._

“I think-“ Rhyno heard himself begin, not quite sure how to say what needed to be said. He wanted nothing more than to grasp Heath’s hand in his own, to pull it to his breast and tell the man that he might never be able to sleep on his own again, that he didn’t want any of them to leave. He drew a breath, steeling himself.

“I think maybe I shouldn’t come out to the farm for a while…”

The farmer stilled, and Rhyno took the opportunity to pull his hand away.

“What d’you mean?” Heath asked, following Rhyno’s hand with his eyes. The incomprehension in his voice was heart-breaking. “Is there somethin’ wrong with Luca?”  
Rhyno swallowed bile. It was for the best. Wasn’t it?

“I don’t think we should see each other for a while.” Rhyno made himself meet the other man’s eyes as he said it, his voice surprisingly even. “It’s been good having you here, Heath. You… you better go now.”

This was the worst thing Rhyno had ever done.

It was pure agony, forcing himself to remain calm as he watched the confusion on Heath’s face bleed into hurt and betrayal before it hardened into something else, something passive and ugly.

In the end, there wasn’t even the reassurance of anger. Just a terse nod and a thanks for letting his family stay with him before the farmer was gone. A whimper. Rhyno let out an uneven breath, staring at the door that was suddenly cutting him off from the man he’d come to love and tried to remind himself why he’d done what he had. When the silence of the house had settled around him, he walked back to the bedroom and laid down on the bed, breathing in Heath’s lingering scent until he fell asleep.

Outside, the first snow of the winter had begun to fall.

-

_There’s no reason_   
_There’s no sense_   
_I’m not supposed to feel_   
_I forget who I am_   
_I forget_


	12. Nobody People

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor old Rhyno and his talent for self-flaggelation...
> 
> Opening lyrics from "The Saddest Song" by Morphine, and title taken from "Five Years" by David Bowie:
> 
> _My brain hurt like a warehouse, it had no room to spare_   
>  _I had to cram so many things to store everything in there_   
>  _And all the fat-skinny people_   
>  _And all the tall-short people_   
>  _All the nobody people_   
>  _And all the somebody people_   
>  _I never thought I'd need so many people_

_I set my course, sail away from shore_   
_Steady, steady as she goes_   
_A crash in the night, two worlds collide_   
_And when two worlds collide, no one survives_

-

Rhyno wasn’t sure how much time had passed since the family had returned to the farm.

Somehow, time didn’t quite mean the same now as it had before.

While the Slaters had lived with him, the blacksmith had been aware of time in a way he had never been before – the changing of the seasons; the growth of the soil; the endless, cyclical nature of work on the farm; or even the way the children aged, almost before their very eyes. Every moment with them had been important, precious in its domesticity. But after the door had closed between him and Heath, life gone back to how it had been. Or, nearly. Before the family, his time had gone by in a steady, unremarkable trickle, but now, living in the empty space they had left behind, it seemed to pass in strange leaps, with no rhyme or reason – at once excruciatingly slow and horrifyingly quick.

The blacksmith was sitting alone by the kitchen table, trying to warm his hands on a tepid cup of coffee. Had it always been this cold in the house, or had he simply never realised before now? It was probably just the winter, Rhyno told himself, curling his toes inside his boots, and he _had_ let the stove burn out. He’d get the fire going again once he felt like getting up. Maybe put on a sweater. Outside the window were the gentle beginnings of the season, the snow not yet more than an uneven dusting over the hills, making it look like a baker’s floured workbench. Unlike on the farm, the seasons mattered little to a blacksmith. The days were mostly the same, mild and uniform and grey - he got up in the morning, he worked, he ate, he slept. 

And he tried not to think about them.

Rhyno took a sip of the gritty brew. It was a battle lost long before it had even begun – on the shelf by the sink, framed in glass and gilded metal, it stood. Heath and Rhyno seated, the children carefully arranged around them and the artificial garden behind. It was a beautiful picture, even if it made for pitiful company. Mr. Gallagher had every right to be pleased with it, or ‘absolutely chuffed’ as he’d said when Rhyno had to come to pick up his copy at the Doctor’s house. Something or other about the composition, or maybe it had been the lightning? Rhyno had been somewhat preoccupied with avoiding meeting the Doctor’s knowing, disappointed gaze while the Englishman had chirped away. Once home, holding the picture in his hands, he’d told himself that he’d only got it because he’d promised the children he would, even if those promises meant little now. That it would serve as a reminder of why he had done what he had, encouraging him when things got tough. That it was to help Dr. Castagnioli’s friend in his travels. Of course, that didn’t mean there was any reason to place it there, where he was forced to see it every single day, rather than hidden away in a drawer.

No, it sat on the shelf as penance – an albatross for Rhyno to hang around his own neck. He’d flown too close to the sun, and now he had to pay the price, and as he settled back into his old life, the guilt and the longing simply became part of it. Something to keep him company in the empty house. After all, this was what he knew. This was where he belonged. At the forge. Alone.

-

Rhyno would have given a lot to never see Baron Corbin’s face again, but unfortunately, a man needed to eat. Which was why he found himself on his way to the shop, dragging his feet against the cold, sludgy ground. Just because he wasn’t banned from the store didn’t mean he could let his guard down. The shopkeeper was a dangerous man, in his own way – he seemed to know everything there was to know in Stillwater, ear close to the ground through his twin trades, quick to pick up anything he deemed valuable. There was absolutely no way Baron hadn’t noticed that the Slaters were no longer living with him, the question was only what he was planning to do with that information.

Rhyno shuddered, shoving his hands deeper into his pockets. If he was lucky, there would be other customers in the store to keep Baron busy, so he could zip in and get what he needed with a minimum of unpleasantness. Maybe just a look or two. Well, a man could hope.

The bell rang as Rhyno pushed the door open, shuffling in to escape the chill. 

“…afraid I can’t do anything for you…”

_Oh. Not good._

Go figure the first person he saw would be Harriet. But there she was, standing at the counter with her back towards the door, and by the sound of it, in the middle of an argument with Baron Corbin - or rather, Harriet looked like she was trying her best to remain calm while Baron smirked down at her from the other side. At the far end of the store, doing a very bad job of pretending not to eavesdrop, was Mrs. Harman, staring blankly at the rows of shelves. Then again, Baron was making no attempts at keeping their disagreement private, towering over the young woman with his arms folded, answering everything just a little louder than necessary.

“But-“ Harriet tried, hands clenching at her sides.

“You’re holding up the other customers, Miss Slater,” Corbin looked directly at Rhyno as he said it, not even bothering to hide the smirk on his face. “Come back when you’ve got the money.”

Never mind that the shop was near empty. Harriet tensed and turned around to follow Corbin’s glare, staring right at Rhyno, who gave a sheepish wave, cursing himself for not leaving while he had the chance. The girl was red with embarrassment and anger, her eyes shining. They stood still for a few seconds, looking at each other, before Harriet brushed past him without another word, barging through the door.

Rhyno watched her through the window, disappearing down the street with her head down, before he turned back to Baron. The shopkeeper was looking at with a nasty gleam in his eye, pleased as punch. On the counter in front of the dark-clad man was a pile of cans and wrapped goods.

“What was that all about?” Rhyno asked, half to himself. It looked like Harriet had been just about to pay when she left.

“You must have been so _preoccupied_ lately, Smithy, that you haven’t heard that I no longer offer store credit,” Baron sneered at him, lip curling. “Too many undesirables taking advantage of a kind man.”

Rhyno looked down at the pile of goods again. Of course that bastard had got everything lined up and ready before he told Harriet about this new policy, knowing full well the family did not have any other means of paying for them. And in front of Mrs. Harman as well – there was no way it was a coincidence. The shopkeeper might as well have humiliated the girl in the middle of the main street. Something bubbled under Rhyno’s skin, hot and ugly.

“Pack them up,” the blacksmith snapped at the other man, reaching for his purse. “I’ll buy them.”

Thankfully, Baron didn’t say anything at the sudden request, although Rhyno could see the gears turning in the man’s head as he gathered up all the little parcels and tins into a paper bag, something cruel in his eyes. Rhyno paid quickly, practically throwing the money at the taller man, and rushed off to find Harriet. As he opened the door, he only just caught Baron leaning over to Mrs. Harman, who had already squirreled over to him, talking to the old woman in a mock-sympathetic tone – 

“Those poor things, you can’t help but feel for them, can you? And bastards the lot of them, all seven-“

-

“Harriet!” Rhyno huffed as he ran down the street, the paper bag rattling against his chest. “Harriet, wait!”

She hadn’t got too far, still on the long stretch of the main street, but she was moving swiftly away, like she wanted to get as far away from the shop as quickly as she could.

“Harriet!”

Finally, the girl stopped and let Rhyno come to a very inelegant halt in front of her.

“Here,” the blacksmith said, once his breath had evened out, holding the paper bag out towards her. They were alone in the street, nearly by his shop, and it was cool enough that he could just about see their breath in the air. Harriet sniffed, pulling her shawl tighter around herself, still shook up by what had happened at the store. “I’m sorry Mr. Corbin is so… well, you know. Please take it.”

Harriet looked at the bag, then the man behind it. She was clearly conflicted about accepting the sudden gift, and Rhyno couldn’t blame her - he wasn’t sure how much she knew about the day they’d left his house and what had happened between Heath and himself, but she was far too clever not to have noticed anything. She had probably managed to piece things together without either his or Heath’s help. Rhyno swallowed, waiting for the girl to make a move or say something. After a few long seconds, she cautiously took the bag from his arms, cradling it against her. Immediately, Rhyno felt like he could breathe a little easier.

“I’ll deal with the shop, don’t think about it. You won’t have to go through that again.”

“Thank you, Mr. Rhyno,” she said quietly.

“How…” Rhyno continued, before stopping himself. As much as he desperately needed to know how the family was faring, he knew it wasn’t his place to ask. Not anymore. He had already overstepped his boundaries with the store. Luckily, the red-haired girl seemed to understand, considering him for a moment with those clever eyes, her strong brows furrowed a little.

“We get by,” she said simply. “We’ve still got the chickens and the harvest to last us. Roscoe’s workin’ with Father Wyatt to cover the last of the bills.”

She paused and looked away, like she wasn’t sure whether she ought to continue, or whether she ought to be telling Rhyno anything at all.

“Eliza’s not well. Caught a bad cough last week.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Rhyno said, feeling his stomach drop. That couldn’t be good, especially not at this time of the year. And Eliza was such a small thing... “Has the Doctor been out to see her?”

The girl just shook her head, tightening her grip on the paper bag.

“Ok. Ok, I’ll ask him to come out as soon as he can,” Rhyno nodded. He’d ask the Doctor not to tell the family who had sent him. Heath wouldn’t refuse that. “Just… don’t tell your father about this. I- I don’t want him to worry.”

“Alright, Mr. Rhyno. And thank you again,” Harriet said with another careful look, before she walked away, heading down the road leading out of the town.

-

The next night, Rhyno woke to a terrible roar. At first, in his half-awake state, he thought the thunderous sounds were actual claps of thunder, accompanying the grim winter rain that had been pouring down all day, but as he pushed himself up to sit, he heard them again, loud and rhythmic, cutting through the steady drone of the rain. Someone was banging on his door with great urgency. Quickly, the blacksmith leapt out of bed and hurried through the kitchen, pulling on his old robe while the bangs continued to ring through the house –

“Harry?” Rhyno said in disbelief, the pet name slipping out.

Outside the door, in the pouring rain, stood Heath’s eldest daughter, sopping wet with no coat on and out of breath as if she’d run there.

“Mr. Rhyno,” the girl said, looking up at him with determined eyes, despite looking half-frozen, her hair dripping. “You have to come. The Doctor’s with Eliza.”

Rhyno agreed almost before he knew what Harriet was saying. If it was as he feared, there was no time to lose, no time to mull over whether tit was his place or not, or even to saddle up Luca – there was barely enough time to pull on his boots and trousers on top of his night clothes, throwing his raincoat over Harriet’s shivering shoulders and lighting the lantern, before following the girl into the night.

Side by side, the two walked along the road, fast but not so fast as to waste energy. They walked in silence, no time to lose on words, the light of the lantern hovering before them, burning through the darkness and the relentless downpour. It seemed to be the only light for miles and miles, until the pale eye of the farm begun to appear in the distance, the two lights – the faint glow from the farmhouse and Rhyno’s lantern – slowly moving towards each other, as if pulled by some unknown force.

“Thank you. For comin’,” Harriet said suddenly, her eyes fixed ahead. “Dad hasn’t been himself since we came back to the farm. He’s not… he’s not dealin’ with stuff. Not since…”

She stopped and frowned, at an uncharacteristic loss for words.

“You’re a kind man, Mr. Rhyno. You’re good for him.”

Rhyno was almost grateful when Harriet immediately sped up, as if to let him know there was no need for further discussion – he had no idea what he could have said anyway. And so he shuffled after her, letting a amiable silence fall over them as they continued on the last stretch towards the farm.

They were close enough to see the outline of the house when Harriet spoke up again.

“I broke the plough the second time.”

It wasn’t a confession, or even an apology. Just a statement, matter of fact. Yet Rhyno couldn’t help but smile a little, thinking back to the second time Heath had walked into his shop, Leroy on his arm and the sun at his back.

“You know, I had a feeling you might have.”


	13. Only Misery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things get worse before they get better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who's been without a computer for more than a week!
> 
> This chapter was both difficult to write, since there were so many different bits I wanted to incorporate but didn't feel like I could split into two different chapters, as well as delayed by the aforementioned lack of a computer... But I hope you like it, and that it's not _too_ bleak.
> 
> Chapter title and opening quote from "Hutterite Mile" by 16 Horsepower, one of my favourite songs. End quote from "Landslide" by Kirin J. Callinan.

_It’s only misery_  
_It’s only ankle deep…_

-

The rain had nearly dried up by the time they reached the farm, though it was a faint blessing. Both Harriet and Rhyno were wet and chilled to the bone, boots sloshing as they pulled off the road. There was a cart parked by the road where the path up to the house began, presumably waiting patiently for the Doctor, and Rhyno nodded politely at the gloomy coachman and the equally gloomy-looking horse as they passed them. He really didn’t envy the poor man where he was sat, the rainwater dripping sadly from his hat onto his nose.

Just as they reached the square by the old tree, a familiar figure came out of the farmhouse, carrying a heavy leather bag in one hand.

“Doctor Castagnioli,” Rhyno greeted the man, while Harriet hurried past them with only a quick curtsey, the over-long raincoat trailing the doorstep as she entered.

“Evening,” the Doctor replied, seemingly unfazed by the blacksmith’s sudden appearance, or his dishevelled clothes. There was something tense and heavy in his posture, looking at the shorter man with weary eyes, serious in a way Rhyno wasn’t used to seeing in the man.

“How is she?” the blacksmith asked, his mouth suddenly dry.

“I’m afraid it’s still difficult to tell,” the Doctor began, taking his hat off with his free hand. “other children are fine, just anxious, so at least she does not seem to be contagious. But she has a very high fever, and at her age and size, that can be dangerous. We do not know what repercussions it might have if she survives. All we can hope is that I came in time.” 

_If_. The word rang in Rhyno’s ears as the Doctor pulled his coat tighter around himself, ready to leave. Just as he was about to pass the blacksmith, he paused and put a hand on the dark man’s arm.

“I have told him all I can, my friend,” he said, slow and careful, like he wanted to make sure Rhyno understood every word. “But I’m not sure how much he has understood yet.”

With that, the Doctor tipped his hat and disappeared down the path to his waiting coach, leaving Rhyno to make sense of it all. If. Was there a possibility that Eliza might… might…

No. Rhyno didn’t even want to finish the thought. If he finished it – if he let himself consider the possibility – it might become truth. Thoughts churning, Rhyno willed his feet to walk the last few metres towards the house.

-

If the farmhouse had been miserable when Rhyno had first visited it, it was nothing compared to now. The cold of the early winter seemed to creep through every crack or gap in the wooden building, no isolation against the chill past the clothes on your back. And the family looked like they were wearing every bit of clothing they owned, wrapped in cloths and rags from their toes to the tops of their heads. Most of the children were huddled together around the fireplace, although it looked like the fire had died a while ago, only giving off faint wisps of warmth. A little further away, Roscoe was sat on the chest of drawers, dozing with his head against the wall. The young man looked thinner than Rhyno could remember him being, his shirt almost hanging off him, a quilt thrown around his sloped shoulders.

And then there was Heath.

Heath looked like he had hardly slept since they’d parted, pale and drawn with dark, blue-purple shadows under his eyes, his vibrant rust-red hair dull and unkempt. He looked fragile. Old. The atmosphere in the room was tense and uncertain, deadly quiet save for Heath’s tired voice admonishing Harriet while he towelled the girl’s hair dry.

“…scared us all witless, Harry, runnin’ off like that. What were you-“

Of course, Rhyno had to go and shift his weight onto the creakiest floorboard right then, the one by the door that he’d swore to fix every time he’d come to the house. The blacksmith froze in place as the entire family all seemed to turn at the same time, looking straight at the dark-haired man, his hand still on the door handle.

“…what’s he doin’ here?” Heath asked, his voice tense with emotion. Rhyno met the farmer’s cold stare and realised he hadn’t actually given any thought to what might happen once he was at the farm. There hadn’t been any time to mull it over – he’d just followed Harriet on pure instinct when she’d told him to, knowing that the family needed help. At no point had he stopped to think whether that help would be welcome or not…

“Uhm,” he croaked, realising that he hadn’t thought of anything to say either. But Harriet cut in, taking the towel from her father’s hand and turning towards the faded mirror while she dabbed at the ends of her long hair.

“I asked him to come.”

Heath glared at her, then at Rhyno, clearly feeling betrayed and embarrassed, before he seemed to deflate completely.

“Ruth, put another hay twist on the fire. See if you can get the kettle boiling,” he said, sinking down onto a stool by the bed.

The suffocating tension in the room seemed to lighten, if only a little, and Rhyno took a few unsure steps towards the farmer, alien to the house in a way he hadn’t been for a long, long time. He felt like he was taking up too much space, making too much noise as he crossed the wooden floor, intruding on the family in a desperate moment. As he got close to Heath, he could see the toll it had taken on the farmer. It looked as if the weeks that had passed had etched themselves onto the man’s face, in shadows and fine lines around his eyes, his mouth that Rhyno couldn’t remember having seen before. Then he saw the tiny lump on the bed, wrapped in blankets.

“Is it… is it alright if I…” Rhyno stuttered, staring at it. Heath gave a silent nod, not looking up from his hands. Gently, he sat down at the edge of the bed, the weight of the family’s eyes on his back, leaning over to look –

And there she was. Eliza. So pale she seemed bloodless. She was breathing shallowly, her little frame shaking with every cough, no strength behind them at all. When Rhyno put his palm against her forehead, she was burning to the touch – she didn’t even seem to notice someone was touching her, let alone a large, rough blacksmith’s hand. He swallowed, feeling like something was trying to claw its way through his throat as he brushed the hair away from her face.

-

There wasn’t really much Rhyno could do once he was there, but he quickly understood why Harriet had come to get him.

Heath was more ghost than man. He seemed removed from everything around him, floating around the single room without any clear purpose – one moment sitting on the stool by the bedside with his head in his hands, the next starting up like he couldn’t stand to sit still another second, only to sit down again after a few aimless steps. It was as if he was behind a thin screen, an image blurred through thick window glass. And meanwhile, the children tried their best to make sure life still carried on, walking on eggshells around their father and caring for their ill sister. They took turns pressing cold cloths to Eliza’s feverish skin, holding spoonfuls of water or thin soup to her lips in the hope she would take a little, shushing her terrible coughs like it might help stop them, might make her well again. All while the girl herself seemed lost to the world, caught in that terrible half-sleep.

It was clear they desperately needed someone. And so Rhyno busied himself the best he could. Mostly, he made sure the children had something to do, setting them out to do little chores to distract them from the smothering tension in their home – taking feed to the chickens or finding linen for the beds, or simply keeping the fire going. All while Heath continued to sit like a statue by Eliza’s side, hunched over with his hands clasped in front of him.

The farmer was still there as Rhyno helped cook dinner, the blacksmith keeping half an eye on him while ensuring that everyone ate at least a little. When there at last was nothing left to do and far, far too late anyway, he put the children to bed, tucking them in one by one where there was space for them while Roscoe sat near the fire, rocking Leroy to sleep.

By the time everyone was as comfortable as they could be and sound asleep, Heath had disappeared from his bedside vigil. Rhyno wasn’t sure when he’d slipped out, but he didn’t hurry after him. God knew Heath needed some time to himself. 

-

He found the farmer standing outside. Though the rain had long since stopped, the clouds were lingering, the moon barely visible through the veil of clouds. Heath was facing away from the house, seemingly staring into nothing, his arms hanging loosely by his sides. Rhyno closed the door quietly behind him, huffing at the sudden change in temperature.

“Heath,” he said softly, taking a few hesitant steps towards the farmer. He felt as if he was intruding on a private moment, even though Heath was just standing there on his own.

“I’ve, uh, put the children to bed. Eliza’s cough has calmed down a little, hopefully she’ll be able to sleep for a while.”

If Heath had heard him, he didn’t make any indications that he had.

“There’s supper on the stove for you, if you’d like some.”

Still nothing. Rhyno took another few steps closer, until they were almost side by side.

“Why don’t you come in and warm yourself, Heath? W-You’re running a little low on fuel, but I can head into town tomorrow and get some firewood from the forge, if yo-“

“The Doctor said it might not be so bad,” the farmer said to no-one. The faint light from the starless sky, the sickly tint from the half-covered moon, made him look even more ghostly, the shadows on his face even sharper. It was cold enough that Rhyno had felt the need to put on his coat before he came out, but Heath didn’t seem to notice it, even though he was only wearing a thin woollen jumper over his regular shirt. “That she’s not hurtin’ too much. That if she makes it through the night, she’s got a fair chance. Maybe not as fair a chance as anybody, but-“

The red-haired man turned to look at Rhyno. His eyes were shining, shimmering.

“What am I goin’ to do, Rhyno?”

Heath’s voice cracked at the blacksmith’s name – and then the entire man seemed to crumble before him, sinking down to the cold, muddy ground, his hands covering his face while his body shook with aching sobs. And Rhyno wanted to tell him, wanted to be able to tell him so badly he could feel it in the pit of his stomach, but he didn’t know. What could you do? What could you say in a time like this? He could feel tears on his own cheeks, unsure of how long they had been there.

He sank to the ground next to Heath and wrapped his arms tightly around the farmer, shushing him like a child while he cried and cried.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered against Heath’s hair, over and over like it was all that was left to say, the only thing that made sense anymore. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

When Heath had cried himself empty, dead weight against Rhyno’s chest, the blacksmith carried him inside and put him to bed like he had the children earlier. Heath was terribly light, despite his height and frame – he couldn’t be more than skin and bones these days, Rhyno could feel it though the layers of clothes – but as his face looked younger as he slept, the lines and shadows from earlier smoothed out. 

Feeling terribly tired himself, Rhyno pulled a chair up to the fire where he could keep an eye on both Eliza and Heath and wrapped himself in the last blanket. The fire was mostly embers now, but he could feel the warmth creep back into his legs, lulling him to sleep. As he begun to drift off, his thoughts span sluggishly, to the Doctor’s words from earlier, and the strange, starless night outside, and how beyond Stillwater and the plains, there was a world which knew nothing and cared nothing for the run-down farm and the poor family inside and the tiny shape on the bed, fighting as best she could.

-

It was early, the morning to pale and still it almost didn’t seem to be there at all. It was as if the farmhouse itself hadn’t yet woken up, quiet save for the steady breathing of the children, still asleep. Rhyno stood by the window, looking at the light dusting of snow that had clung to the fields. Usually, the children ought to be up by now, but the blacksmith was more than happy to let them lie until they woke on their own, keeping their breakfast warm on the stove in the meantime. They deserved a rest.

Heath was outside, smoking his pipe and gazing into the distance, like he had the night before. He had got up early, while Rhyno was still dozing in front of the long-dead fire, but he even from where he was standing, his posture looked more relaxed than it had the night before. 

Rhyno tiptoed over to the bed where Eliza was curled up. The girl seemed better already, less feverish than before and breathing evenly as she slept – she’d even moved in her sleep, turning over to nestle against Harriet’s side, holding the older girl’s sleeve in her hand. Rhyno smiled at the two girls, pulling the quilt over them, before he grabbed the blanket from the chair he’d slept in and snuck out the door as quietly as he could. The morning air was cold and crisp, the landscape around the farm hazy with the lingering sunrise where it stretched, as far as the eye could see. Rhyno came up behind the farmer, boots crunching against the half-frozen ground, and wrapped the blanket around the man’s shoulders. Heath must have heard him coming, just offering him a slight smile as he pulled he blanket better around himself. He looked far better than he had when Rhyno had arrived, even if the dark circles, the lines around his eyes were still there. Rhyno gave him a slight smile back, burying his hands in his pockets to warm them.

“I owe you an apology, Heath,” the blacksmith began. “I shouldn’t have said what I said. I didn’t mean it, I just… I was worried about you, about the kids. Those awful things Corbin’s been spreading around town, I-… I didn’t want you to suffer because of me.”

Neither man said anything for a while, and for a few horrible seconds, Rhyno thought it had all come too late. That Heath was past forgiveness.

“Rhyno…” 

But then Heath took the pipe from his mouth and looked straight at the shorter man.

“The day I give a hoot ‘bout what Baron Corbin says is the day I hang up my boots an’ join the circus.”

Rhyno gave a surprised bark of a laugh. The tense knot in his chest unwound a little, seeing the mischievous glint in Heath’s tired eyes.

“I think I owe you an apology too. And a thanks for your help yesterday. For bein’ there,” Heath said, turning the pipe over in his hands. “That bein’ said, I’m not gonna pretend I weren’t upset with you, or that Harriet went an’ got you. But it came from a good place. And I know why she did it.”

“She’s a clever girl,” Rhyno smiled at the other man.

“Far too clever for her own good,” Heath sighed, but there was a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth as he put the pipe back between his teeth. This was better, closer to normal, Heath puffing on his pipe and Rhyno’s breath making frosty little clouds in the cold air. A little closer to the Heath he knew, not so fragile and frayed.

“It’s… it’s not been easy since we got back,” Heath broke the comfortable silence that had fallen between them, his tone soft and uncertain. “Harry’s barely said a word since we left, and Roscoe’s not been doin’ great since he took on that work at Wyatt’s place. I guess it’s just the stress and the work an’ all, but… he talks in his sleep sometimes. Or he’ll wake in the middle of the night, the sweat pourin’ off him. Eliza fallin’ ill was the last thing we needed…”

Heath paused, knocking out his pipe and putting it in his pocket. Rhyno kept quiet - it looked like he was trying to sort out his thoughts.

“This mornin’, Eliza…” Heath begun while he rubbed his hands together. Rhyno could see his fingers were pink with cold, and for a moment he thought about taking the farmer’s hands in his, pulling them close to his chest to warm them up. “The Doctor said somethin’ might happen, somethin’ like this, but I didn’t think…”

The red-haired man drew a deep breath, dragging a hand across his face, and Rhyno suddenly had a, awful, sinking feeling of dread - he couldn’t explain it, the way it seemed to get colder, the morning chill creeping under his clothes.

“She can’t hear nothin’, Rhyno.”

Heath turned to meet the blacksmith’s eyes, and where the night before had been tears and raw grief, there was now only an empty, resigned sadness. Like this was another thing. Another thing the farmer and his family would have to endure, to carry with them. _I’m sorry._

With the pale winter morning around them, Rhyno put his cold hands on Heath’s face and kissed the farmer for the first time.

-

_We are dirt_  
_Falling with the landslide_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all again for all the lovely comments you've left so far, I appreciate them all enormously! Next up, there will be more about Father Wyatt - hopefully, I'll have it up a little quicker than I had this chapter.


	14. Their Foot Shall Slip in Due Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What's he building in there...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone, long time no see! It's been pretty busy here, but finally I've got this chapter finished - I hope you enjoy some more ominous Wyatt action.
> 
> Opening quote is taken from "The Mission" by Puscifer, and end quote is from "Let England Shake" by PJ Harvey. Chapter title taken from Deuteronomy (32:35) - 'To me belongeth vengeance, and recompence; their foot shall slip in due time: for the day of their calamity is at hand, and the things that shall come upon them make haste.'

_The birds and the bees they are wise to the lies_

_So they took to the trees and took to the skies_

_On top of the chain and safe from the rain_

_Whatcha’ know about the ways of the underside_

-

Roscoe could feel Harper watching him from the wagon as he staggered up the narrow path to the farmhouse. It was night already, later than he had told his father he would be home, barely enough moonlight to light his way where he dragged his feet against the cold ground. Soon he would be by the old tree and he would hear the tell-tale crack of Harper’s whip, knowing that the man lingered, keeping his eyes on him until he disappeared in the shadows of the little square between the barn and the house. Only then would the dark man turn the wagon around with a creak and roll back the way they had just come.

Swaying like a drunkard, Roscoe finally reached the tree and leant his shoulder against it, taking a moment to catch his breath. He was cold and weary down to his bones, his sorry excuse for an overcoat doing little to keep the chill out, but he was nearly there. Just a few more steps to the little house, and he’d be home. There as a faint light coming from the windows – is father must still be up, despite Roscoe assuring him he didn’t need to. The young man smiled tiredly to himself as he thought of how his father had beamed at him when he first came home and told him Father Wyatt had asked him to come work on the church repairs. 

How long had it been since he’d accepted the preacher’s offer? Roscoe couldn’t remember, but it seemed like an awfully long time. It sure felt like it. Course, they had long exceeded the original work Father Wyatt had asked him to do at the church, mending part of the roof that the storm had taken off that autumn. That hadn’t been bad work either – cold, sure, stuck up there nailing down rooftiles in the frigid weather, but Harper and Rowan were also there to help, and Father Wyatt had been a most personable host, making sure the young man came inside every now and then to warm himself, ready with a mug of coffee or broth to thaw his hands on. So, when Father Wyatt had asked him to do some work on his house, he’d known he couldn’t say no.

Really, it had been a blessing. A privilege to be invited into the preacher’s own home, to be trusted with such a task, despite being nothing more than the son of a poor farmer. Winter was usually a dark time for the family, a time of little work and few means, waiting with bated breath until spring came and they could take up the work on the farm yet again. In some ways, Roscoe guessed things weren’t as bad this winter as they had been before – Mr. Rhyno was back with them, and helped out as much as he could, though Roscoe didn’t want to take advantage of the man’s kindness. He was only one, after all, he couldn’t take care of all eight of them on his own, and it wouldn’t be right to expect him to. That was Roscoe’s responsibility now. And they needed the money more than ever. Roscoe had no idea what was going to happen to his baby sister after she’d lost her hearing, but he knew it wasn’t going to be easy. The world was not a kind place to people like them, and it would be even less so now. Anything he could do to lighten her burden, he would do.

Pushing away from the tree, Roscoe stumbled the last few steps towards the house, the cool night air burning in his lungs. When he had first come out to Father Wyatt’s home, the place had looked virtually deserted. His expression must have given him away as he’d stepped off the wagon, Harper close behind, because Father Wyatt had greeted him with a wide grin and welcomed him to the Pastorium, like knew it was too grand a word to use for such a sad sight.

“She might not look like much, Brother Roscoe, but she does a terrific job at keeping intruders away,” the preacher had chuckled, leading the younger man to the front gates.

The house laid far removed from the rest of the town, far enough that Roscoe wasn’t sure you could call it part of Stillwater anymore, and was not so much derelict as it was thoroughly worn down – chipped paint and dull windows and nothing around it but dry grass and the plains. Had it not been for Father Wyatt’s insistence that one of his silent “brothers” come pick him up, Roscoe wasn’t sure he would have found the place.

As it turned out, the work wasn’t on the outside of the house, even if it was sorely needed. It wasn’t inside the house either – but rather beneath it. Once he’d been taken through the front doors, through the kitchen and down a trap door hidden beneath an old rug, it became clear that Harper and Rowan must have spent the summer digging out the cellar, extending it slowly in all directions. Coming down the stairs from the kitchen, the space consisted of one large room, with the beginnings of a low corridor at the far end and half a doorway carved out on the other. Roscoe’s job consisted of helping Harper and Rowan as they continued the meticulous expansion - reinforcing the walls and beans that lined the ceiling, evening out the dirt floor and carving out the last room, bit by bit. Almost the whole day was spent underground, scuttling about like moles with no sense of time, hidden away from the few sunlit hours they had, only popping up for lunchtime and the odd break. And so the days passed in quick succession. Roscoe would get up early in the morning to finish the chores at the farm before he was picked up, work at the Pastorium late into the evening, and at the end of the day, Harper or Rowan would drive him back to the farm, Roscoe dozing on the seat next to the other man.

Roscoe had found it odd at first, digging such a large root cellar in a house with only three people in, but it weren’t his place to question it. Work was work, and work waited for no man to stand around and try to make sense of it, that much he knew. Idle hands were the work of the devil – that's what the old priest had used to say, and Father Wyatt had seemed mighty pleased with Roscoe when he told him so on his first day, patting the younger man on the shoulder and telling him they were wise words indeed. Roscoe had been glad for it. He knew he was not a smart man, and it felt good to be able to impress someone as clever as Father Wyatt. And he was. The preacher knew all kinds of things, not just the scriptures, everything that came out of his mouth sounding like a sermon, important and weighty. Naturally, Father Wyatt didn’t take part in the work, but the preacher made sure to sit down for lunch and supper with them, or when they took a much-needed break from the freezing subterranean temperatures of the cellar to warm themselves around the kitchen fire, bringing the men mugs of strong tea and chatting to them like friends. They couldn’t be much company for the preacher – Father Wyatt had to do most of the talking, with Harper and Rowan adding little, but the man didn’t seem to mind. Like most, Roscoe had assumed his two workmates were mute, or perhaps feeble-minded; some poor, helpless souls Father Wyatt had taken in. He couldn’t recall either man ever speaking a word at the Sunday school, or anywhere else for that matter, but one day, out of the blue, Rowan had turned to him and asked to borrow his hammer, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Roscoe had been too stunned to say anything back. The more time he spent at the Pastorium, the more it seemed to him that far from being mute, Harper and Rowan simply felt no need to speak unless they thought it necessary, preferring to listen, watching everything around them with sharp eyes.

And they listened to no one more than Father Wyatt. The pair would sit utterly still while the preacher spoke, the men seated around the small kitchen table, their faces turned towards the man like sunflowers, hanging onto his every word. Roscoe didn’t say much either, although Father Wyatt would ask about the farm and his family, talking to him like a friend, rather than a hired hand. Sometimes, the preacher would read to them, or tell them stories, all in that strange, mesmerising tone Roscoe remembered from the Sunday school sermon. Once, he had told them about brother Cain and brother Abel, one had clasping the other as he showed them how the brothers had struggled with each other, while Rose sat in silence alongside Harper and Rowan, the two men listening in rapt attention.

Finally, Roscoe stumbled through the doorway, feet knocking against the threshold.

The single room was quiet and faintly warm from the fire still simmering. As he’d expected, his siblings were all in bed, and in front of the stove his father was gently snoring, slumped in his chair like he had fallen asleep waiting for him. There was a plate on the kitchen table, his dinner long cold, but Roscoe didn’t look at it, his legs already carrying him towards the bed on their own accord. Careful not to jostle the twins who were curled up on the other half of the mattress, the teenager laid down fully clothes, his head sinking into the pillow.

He was so tired, yet it seemed like all he did was sleep these days – a deep, unrestful sleep like nothing he had ever felt before. It was just the long days, he was sure of it, the hard, sunless work wearing him out. His father had told him he would mutter in his sleep some night, though he couldn’t make out what he was saying. One time, he had woken with a shout, nearly falling out of bed. And he had such strange dreams. Of great desolate plains and a still lake, so deep you couldn’t make out the bottom of it. Or vivid visions of fire, like those Father Wyatt would sometimes speak of, a burning wheat field, so real he could feel the heat on his skin, or a house ablaze, the plumes licking up towards a dark, starless sky. When he woke, it felt like he hadn’t slept a moment, no more rested than he had been the night before.  
Roscoe shifted on the lumpy mattress, curling around himself to keep warm. His head felt heavy as led, like it had been filled to the brim, Father Wyatt’s words sloshing around inside his skull.

Earlier that day, the preacher had come down the cellar stairs to check on him, staying for a chat while Roscoe worked, happy to talk for them both. At first, they had simply talked about the work and the progress they had made for the past weeks, Roscoe replying as was polite, his breath frosty in the freezing basement. As the red-haired man chipped away at the dirt wall in front of him, Father Wyatt had reminisced about his days as a young man, helping his parents at their farm and his early days of preaching, usually in churches that were little more than sheds and barns.

Then he had got onto the subject of the preacher’s sister. 

From what Roscoe had picked up during his time working for Father Wyatt, he understood that the man’s older sister was no longer with them, having passed some time before the preacher made his way from the south to the plains, but while she was alive, she had been a preacher like him, and that it had been her who had taught the portly man to preach. It wasn’t anything unusual – Father Wyatt would often speak of his sister, of her gifts and the miracles she had performed in their village - but this particular day, the preacher told Roscoe a story of a blind woman who had come to them. Blind from birth, the woman had never seen the light of day, and no medical doctor had been able to restore her sight. She was brought before Sister Abigail, as she was known to everyone who knew her, who had laid her hands on the woman, plucked her eyes out of her head and breathed the spirit on them. Throughout the ordeal, the woman had made no sound, shown no sign of pain, and when Sister Abigail put her eyes back, the woman could see again. Roscoe hadn’t said a word while the man spoke of his sister’s miracle, the words rattling around in his head until he realised he had stopped moving, arms holding the pickaxe mid-air, and the preacher was no longer talking. Slowly, he put the axe down and looked to Father Wyatt. The older man was watching him carefully, like he knew something Roscoe didn’t. A moment had passed, stretching out between them, then Father Wyatt had squeezed Roscoe’s shoulder amiably like he usually did, hand like a hot brand against the younger man’s skin, and turned to go back up to the kitchen. But before he reached the stairs, he had turned to meet Roscoe’s uneasy gaze again, something glinting in his eyes even though he wasn’t smiling.

Roscoe wrapped his arms tighter around himself. He could still hear the man’s words through the fog in his head, soft yet clear.

“I was very saddened to hear of your sister’s illness.”

-

_and by the shore, heavy stones are falling_

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Let me know what you think, kudos and comments are deeply appreciated, especially for a WIP like this.


End file.
